The Doctor's Assistant
by howverysonic
Summary: Whouffle AU: Doctor John Smith is a highly regarded medical scientist at UNIT —he's also a man that just won't die… Or so the amateurs say. Clara Oswald was born and raised a killer. Now hired as his assistant she must figure out a way to extract his valuable research and destroy him. It's only business. {Rated M for future chapters.}
1. No Vacancy

**A/N: Hello! Okay so basically this is a full story version of my role-play thread on tumblr ( tagged/thread%3A+The+Doctor%27s+Assistant). A couple of people asked if there was somewhere that they could read the thread all in one place, so me and Ciara decided to do this. Due to it being a role-play thread it was hard to convert as the POV changes with each reply, although I hope you enjoy it. Feedback is appreciated and the next chapter will be up very soon!**

* * *

"Did you pick one or…?"

"No, got assigned. I don't understand why they suddenly think I need some sort of babysitter when I haven't had an assistant in years!"

John was fuming, having worked with UNIT from the word go, selected from his course as being 'exactly what they needed'. Not only that but he had been solving tons of the cases they had left unresolved and made significant progress in developing sonic technology. Including manipulating a common screwdriver into a multifunctional sonic device.

But apparently Doctor Smith needed an assistant now.

Had they not learnt after the last few? They all ended up moving on for bigger and better jobs and John was always left behind to sort out the mess. He had since refused having one but now, for some reason, he had been reassigned. He didn't even get to pick for himself.

And admittedly he was not at all happy about it.

"Doctor, maybe they're just trying to lighten the workload? This woman is qualified right?" Sarah persisted again. Being one of the few colleagues he got along with these days. UNIT was quickly becoming the next MI5. Way too obvious and show-offy for their own good.

Plus there was that simple matter of all that money they were being bribed with…

He had stumbled upon it accidentally. But the Doctor did not believe anyone had seen his discovery.

"Computer skills, apparently." He sighed. "She'll be here any minute."

"You're not going to clear the desk for her?" Sarah pressed, glancing at the desk that was originally reserved for his assistant but had since been covered in research papers. John scrunched his nose and she took that as a no.

"Good luck!" She called as she strolled out, passing a pretty young girl on her way. "Doctor Smith's office is that way if you're the new girl."

* * *

Clara Oswald, professional hit man since she was sixteen, born and bred to kill; trained since she was nine. She wasn't part of a company — she worked alone and preferred it that way. No mistakes, no dawdling. She was in and out and got the job done without any fuss.

It was all part of the business.

She was, of course, in high demand. Clara was well known for being the best of the best; trained by David Oswald — her Father — who had been somewhat of a legend in his time. Some would argue that she'd developed beyond his skills, that her quick wit and beyond genius intelligence got her further than her Fathers brute strength.

Clara didn't need strength. She was small, agile and damn smart.

Her last job had been somewhat tedious, and so when she'd received a call from DALEKs — an internationally renowned medical company — she'd jumped at the chance to take on a more.. interesting case. In theory it was simple; a worker at their rival company TARDIS had made a discovery — what discovery she was yet to find out — and they wanted him stopped. Her job was to dispose of the man and deliver his research to them.

Normally she would turn down such a mediocre job, but it was what she found out afterwards that interested her enough to accept..

They'd already employed ten different hit men over the past year — none of which had even gotten close to this man — John Smith, they'd called him — and some were of world class standard in the business. He was untrusting, closed off, isolated and at the top of the chain; his security was immense.

It was her job to get past it.

Clara was used to quick jobs. In, out, move onto the next. She was good, could get three jobs done a day if she was feeling particularly bored. This time, however, she'd be playing the long game.

"Doctor Smith's office is that way if you're the new girl."

"Thanks." Clara replied, a friendly smile gracing her lips, before she made her way over to the office door, knocking sharply as she waited for a reply.

John scowled at the knock. Not bothering to stand and get it.

The company could shove this whole assistant programme, he'd just be as hostile as he could and hopefully that would be enough to push her into resigning.

"It's open." He called from his desk. And she could figure out that she had to open it for herself now. This one was supposedly clever anyway but hadn't they said that about the others?

It wasn't that he hadn't started off being nice to his assistants, seeing them as companions really. People to converse with and help him progress in his research. Doctor Smith had liked the idea on paper.

Only they never lasted and in the end tended to be more trouble than they were worth. They always moved on anyway, very suddenly as if they'd just packed up and gone over night. That was why he refused more.

Of course they all were unaware that the company 'TARDIS' was in fact just one sector of UNIT. At least that part remained secret. They functioned as a cooperation in producing medical supplies and funded research into alien technologies that could potentially work to fight human disease and infections. Obviously that part was under wraps… couldn't have the general public panicking about 'little green men from mars' although the country was frequently visited by extra terrestrial life forms.

Sometimes John wondered how people could be so unobservant.

Clara stepped inside, quite aware of his grouchiness, but unconcerned. It shouldn't last long.

His office was… cluttered, to say the least. Papers were scattered across his desk, books on the floor, a whiteboard with various calculations scribbled down at one end of the room, and two desks at the other. On the walls hung various certificate, and it was obvious he was a very gifted individual — but she had already known that. In fact, she knew an awful lot about this man.

All part of the job.

She cleared her throat and allowed her lips to tug upwards into a small, friendly smile. "Doctor Smith, I presume? I'm Clara. Clara Oswald."

He glanced up briefly from his computer, she was quite pretty, he supposed. They tried to send him the best, she was probably undoubtedly bright as promised too. A young, clever and beautiful assistant — they were always like that.

But he didn't care anymore. Unimpressed by such things now.

"Nice name. Clara. You should definitely keep it." The Doctor muttered rather dryly.

"I plan to." she replied, almost as dryly as him. "And what should I call you? The woman said Doctor Smith, but I heard you prefer to just go by the Doctor."

"Just Doctor is fine," he insisted, he preferred his title at work over his name. 'John Smith' was an everyman and the Doctor didn't want to just be the standard male. He prided himself on his work, his brain. He was only 'John' at home, when it didn't matter so much what he did.

He was in an awful mood, she gathered that — but it wasn't unexpected. In fact, part of the reason as to why she took this case was that she knew it was going to be difficult. She had to gain his trust, she had to get close to him, which — due to her natural attractiveness — wasn't normally a problem when it came to male cases. Except this time, she didn't think she'd just be able to bat her eyelids and undo an extra button on her shirt. He was smart, especially in comparison to most of the idiots she'd been given before, and obviously untrusting.

"That's your desk. I left stuff on it. Don't touch it and don't move it. I'll do that if I get time…" He sighed. "Probably won't."

John did not like to be cruel, he supposed this one probably didn't understand that he really didn't want her to be there.

"You can shove a bit of it to the side for some space actually. Just be careful. Oh and welcome to your first day here. It's probably not what you expect."

She raised an eyebrow at his tone, moving a couple piles of papers onto the shelf next to her, being careful not to mix up the order before turning back to face him. "D'you want me to sort this out? Y'know, process it into the computer and file it?"

"No. Thanks." the Doctor replied curtly to her offer, not even looking at Clara anymore as he continued to tap away at his keyboard. It was easy just to remain impersonal and he had stacks of tasks to complete.

"It's important that it isn't changed in any way, one wrong figure could cost the whole result. I left some work on the side over there, just basic research I need. You can get some results online and you might have to go through some files on the company network too. Shouldn't be too taxing," he explained, realising he could hardly leave her hanging, "we'll be starting a new project soon. It'll be good if you know what it's about."

If she stuck around that long.

Clara shrugged slightly and gathered the pile of papers on the side, which contained a list of research to be completed. Tedious, and a definite waste of her intelligence, but she knew she'd have to gain his trust. And so she set off working, collecting detailed notes and accurate test results, displaying them in three different formats — just because she had some extra time, before printing it all out and stapling it into a booklet. It only took her the best part of two hours, and the booklet she'd produced was thick; packed full of information and data that would hopefully be helpful.

She didn't say a word — she didn't brag about how much she'd done, she didn't expect a thanks and didn't care much for the shock evident on his face at how little time she'd needed to achieve so much. Instead she smiled her friendly, almost playful, smile and approached his desk, placing the booklet in front of him.

The Doctor rose his eyebrows slightly, flipping through the pages and smiled, reluctantly, at the standard. Her results checked in perfectly - she'd done more than was asked of her. Maybe they were really trying with this one.

But he didn't congratulate her, he didn't even say thank you, it was too early on for any of that. And maybe his pride was a bit bruised too.

He glanced up to look at her properly for the first time, softening ever so slightly because maybe he had been uncharacteristically harsh before.

"M'going to get a coffee — want one?" she asked.

"Actually, I don't drink it… More of a tea person." He stood up. "I'll join you though and make it myself."

He first noticed upon standing next to her that she was actually quite small in height, smaller than she had seemed when he sat at his desk — but not little. He walked through to the door holding it for her before he led them further to the kitchen area with the coffee machine and kettle. Wordlessly he set out two mugs.

He was beginning to trust her; Clara could see it. After all, it was her job to notice subtle differences. The way his expression softened ever so slightly, the way he held the door open for her, even how he grabbed two mugs instead of one — it all showed that his previous obvious dislike was fading. He was impressed with her work. Maybe this wouldn't be as hard as expected.

"The machine does pretty much whatever you want Cappuccino, Latte, Espresso…" John explained gesturing to the buttons before he flipped on the kettle and started making his tea.

Clara put her mug in the machine and pressed the Latte button, frowning when nothing happened. She pressed it again — still nothing.

"I don't think it likes me." she murmered, going to grab her mug back, but as she did the machine came to life, squirting the boiling water over the mug, and in turn, her hand.

He winced as soon as he realised Clara's error, there could sometimes be a delay in the machine when it boiled the water… And as she tried to grab her mug back impatiently the scolding liquid was spurted out over her skin.

She cursed, cradling her throbbing hand in her arm with a small pout. "Oh, I knew it! You are a moody cow!"

"Get it under ice water," he instructed quickly.

The Doctor stopped what he was doing and turned the cold tap on, ushering her over because she wasn't being fast enough and he knew from experience that a burn was far less likely to blister if cooled immediately. He also knew that it was probably going to hurt a little when she initially put it under and so he reached for her wrist and held it here firmly. If she drew her hand back it would only sting more.

She hissed as the cold water hit her skin, almost glaring at him for holding her wrist there, despite the fact she knew he was only trying to help. It started to go numb pretty quickly, though — like he promised — and she was soon only left with a dull, throbbing sensation in her hand. Clara hoped it wouldn't blister — it was a pretty bad burn.

"Sorry." He muttered apologetically as the ice water raced over it and he heard her breath sharpen. "It will quickly go numb, it has to stay to draw the heat out though."

John smiled in vague, childish, amusement at the scenario.

"The machine can get a bit temperamental sometimes, but it's usually good. Do you still want that coffee —I'll make it for you after if you want. Save your hands."

His smile was definitely a bit smug now, teasing, he didn't know why but John had already sensed this strange kind of competitiveness in his new assistant and he always rose to a challenge.

"No, I don't want any of your bloody coffee." she grumbled childishly, assessing her poor hand with a small pout. "I swear that machine has it in for me. Been here barely three hours and it attacks me!"

Although, she thought, if anything did come out of the incident it was the fact that the Doctor seemed more relaxed around her, less aggressive. It was progress at least.

John rose an eyebrow.

"Oh if looks could kill," he remarked, "I reckon that scowl could just about manage —don't take it out on the poor machine. Your fault."

"Oh yeah, s'my fault that your bloody machine squirted boiling water at me!" Clara narrowed her eyes again, but there was a playful smirk on her face and she was sure that this was the first time she'd shared anything close to a joke with someone in a long while. Unfortunately her line of work didn't bode well for friendships.

— Not that she needed anyone, of course. Clara Oswald was perfectly happy on her own. Happier, in fact. Other people just caused her inconveniences and she did not have the time for that. Nope. She was happier alone. —

Although she admitted that he was quite charming, under the hostile attitude and grumpy demeanour. She suspected he was just a little pissed off at the range of assistants he'd been dumped with over the past few months.

Little did he know, each and every one was hired to kill him. They obviously hadn't done a good job so far.

"—Actually, I wouldn't mind a coffee. As long as you make it — I don't trust that machine." Clara said begrudgingly, an almost apologetic half smile on her face for snapping at him.

He grinned again.

Maybe he had forgotten how much fun it could be to have assistant to tease. He moved across and set the machine to make her coffee again, a familiar task, he left it to heat whilst he fixed his tea.

She muttered something under her breath, cursing the machine once more and he chuckled.

"Oh you'll live," he said sarcastically, although he was also reassuring in his tone, "shouldn't swell anyway —trust me, I'm a Doctor."

"Yeah, well I'm a computer genius, so stop being so bloody stubborn and give me something useful to do. Tedious research isn't exactly taking advantage of my skills now, is it?"

"Coffee dear," he nodded, sarcastically cheerful but smirking genuinely, handing her the cup to her non-burnt hand and ignoring that demand, "the research is necessary, you can be involved in the big project at some point but I needed that and it's part of your job. Besides —your hand probably needs the break from keyboard smashing to heal."

John was hardly looking for friendship but he thought that they might get along. At least Clara knew how to respond to him, she didn't back down and he sort of gained some respect for her because of that. A lot of the others had taken a 'yes boss' approach and that wasn't as much fun.

"It's a difficult job you know, every one of the others left. I'm not willing to trust as much as I used to so I have to know you're going to stick around," he nodded and sipped his cup of tea thoughtfully, "don't be busy at lunchtime, we should go and eat somewhere, 'get to know each other' —the company does recommend it."

Not that he ever listened to what the company recommended. But he had to admit that getting a sense of her motivation for being here, her skills and background would make working together much easier.

He didn't await her answer, moving onwards and strolling back through to his office, John sat down again and set back to work. Vaguely amused by the whole experience.

"You'll soon realise I'm quite stubborn. I don't give up easily," she called after him, hiding the smirk on her lips behind her cup of coffee.

Clara couldn't help but stifle a chuckle, equally amused by the turn of events and she wondered if this was going to be easier than first anticipated. Although that had been the last thing from her mind only minutes prior and she had to remind herself to keep her head in the game.

Because that's what this was — a game. A game of cat and mouse and she always won. Scheming and preparing and planning, like a solider going into battle, every move accounted for and every action rehearsed. She was not the best by chance — she was the best purely for her intelligence, something her Father had lacked. Of course, he'd had the brute strength she didn't, but Clara didn't need it. She didn't need the strength to kill her targets.

And John Smith was the first person to ever distract her from the game — even if only for a few seconds.

— And maybe she quite liked that. It made everything so much more interesting.


	2. New Zealand

**A/N: As the first chapter was just setting up I thought I'd post the second already. This focuses around their lunch, so it's not overly long, but the excitement starts very soon! Please remember to review, feedback is most welcome. :-)**

* * *

Lunch came and she could not help but be slightly intrigued, for this was not the John Smith she'd been briefed on. Her John was cold, closed off, untrusting and certainly did not invite his assistant to lunch. Not unless he absolutely had to.

But, luckily, Clara's speciality was improvisation. The contrast from what she had expected did not change her plans at all, just altered how she would execute them.

"So, where are we going, Doctor?" she asked, pulling her coat on and turning to John with a friendly smile.

John stretched as an excuse for not immediately answering whilst he processed that question. He had been so absorbed in work that he'd forgotten any plans.

Ah lunch, yes. He had insisted they were going for lunch hadn't he?

—-Why?

Possibly because he wanted to figure her out a bit… Something was very different with Clara. The others had all been fairly similar, they had tried and failed. He wanted to work out if being different meant she might not.

Not that he was that optimistic but it was at least something.

"Erm… I don't really mind. It's on the company card anyway. There is a new Japanese place two streets away, Sarah recommends it. Oh, and call me John if it's easier."

He didn't bother to point out that Sarah was his colleague from earlier. She probably realised, if not, too bad.

Less than twenty minutes later they were seated in the Japanese restaurant, stool seats on a long table by the window. Scanning the menus. They weren't really talking but it wasn't awkward.

"So, do you travel?" He turned to look expectantly, he thought she might have, Clara seemed to give off an impression that she knew her way around the world. When she walked she had the confidence of a person who been to and seen a lot of places.

"I travel a lot for my job. I'm not just an assistant, you know — actual, proper computer genius. I get a lot of… requests. Hacking and whatnot, government agencies mainly. Travel is one of the perks." Clara replied with a smile.

Partly true. She was a computer genius employed by governments, but just not only for her computer skills. Mainly for her intelligence in general and more often than not her flawless executions.

She was in demand all over the world and, as well as the pay, the travel was what she enjoyed most.

John frowned as she spoke, impressive maybe, but he wasn't looking to be impressed in that way.

"Is it a good idea to tell me that you have another more important job or—? I mean I was serious when I said that this is a very demanding role. I need complete commitment… This research is groundbreaking. It has the potential to change everything. People kill for this research, you're not just an assistant at all. You're part of this if you're worth it."

And the salary reflected on that fact, it was certainly not just filing paperwork.

Clara narrowed her eyes slightly in thought — well, he was a tough one to please.

"I've traveled enough, John. I've been dragged from place to place for years and, don't get me wrong, I'm so grateful for my opportunities but… I've never been proud of anything I've done. Protecting corrupt governments and hacking top secret systems is not something you dream of doing when you grow up. S'why I took this job. I want to do something, commit to something properly, stay in one place long enough to make a difference."

Maybe some of what she said was closer to the truth than she'd allow herself to admit.

But pride was not something one often felt in this line of work.

Detachment worked better. Emotions only got in the way.

He nodded, okay, he could sort of take that. He knew that Clara was calculating what he wanted to hear but if that meant she was stubborn enough to keep this then he assumed she would be focused.

Perhaps he shouldn't have related to that. This project was groundbreaking and would make a difference… But the company was focused on business. Selling discovery. He had grown in this industry, he understood it. But that didn't mean as a child he hadn't wanted to have been something that was less corrupted.

He had wanted to be a Doctor. The sort that people looked up to, the kind that made things better.

But if you wanted to get far in the world you couldn't focus on being a family doctor. Business was the way forward, scientific discovery and progress. He was making leaps and bounds rather than small steps forward with a healthy profit.

So he smiled at her genuinely, a rarity for John, sometimes, very rarely, he slipped back into being that keen, floppy haired, medical student on his first day.

But he was always quickly gone again.

Clara wondered what it was she saw in that second, that second of a pure, genuine smile which was gone as quickly as it came and it intrigued her. It was almost like he didn't want to relax around her, like he was insistent on begin as difficult as possible and she could see now why he'd survived the previous six people hired to murder him

He was almost as stubborn as she was.

Not quite, though, and she was sure this would be his downfall.

Clara had a hell of a lot of patience.

"What about you?"

"Travel? A lot yes, it's a hobby really, but we have conferences and research overseas. I like things that are different, it's all grey buildings in this industry. If you don't get out sometimes it's claustrophobic —so, favourite destinations?"

He ordered a selection of sushi when the waitress came over and just mineral water to drink.

Clara broke their gaze, ordering the same with a smile and a nod to the waitress.

"Oh, Paris. Without a doubt. Paris and New Zealand — beautiful places."

"Paris," he made a face as if to say 'typical', but John joking, he liked Paris too.

"I like the food in France," she said with a small shrug, taking a sip of her water. "Gotta love a good soufflé."

"New Zealand I agree, beautiful. I like Barcelona, nice architecture… Very far from grey."

"Mhm, I loved New Zealand. Absolutely spectacular. The people are brilliant, too — lots of the locals try and preserve their native culture. They're really proud of it, it's fascinating." she added, taking a sip of her drink.

"I didn't get to stay there long," he admitted, "I'd like to visit again."

The sushi arrived and they ate, John forgot that he was supposed to be drilling her on job skills and got sidetracked talking about travel, places they had been to and places they wanted to go to.

He was still reserved but the conversation was interesting, more than he often got from people at work.

The amount of times Jeff from marketing had started telling him about his wife and children, he didn't seem to get the part where John was not interested at all. It was always these irrelevant stories about how 'Sandra' had made a cake or his son had been fighting at school.

Nothing like Clara at all.


	3. Near Disaster

**A/N: Wow, nearly 400 reads already! We were seriously not expecting such a great response. Thanks guys! This is kinda of a filler chapter, leading up to the next big event, but I will try and get the next chapter up today, if not tomorrow! Please review and leave feedback, it's really appreciated! **

* * *

For the next few weeks he found that he could start to trust that Clara would be staying for the job. She was clever and unlike a lot of the other assistant's she didn't annoy him much at all. They constantly threw quips back and forth, some pretty harsh, but neither batted an eye. In fact, they had a few private jokes now too.

Clara often asked him how 'Sandra' and the kids were doing, to which he would smirk. He even bought the Metro into work once because the front cover featured a women who had won some soufflé bake off. Throwing it in on Clara's desk he had looked way, far too amused.

"Probably not in your future," he nodded, he had learnt a few small details about her. It seemed her main fault was that she couldn't make a soufflé to save her life.

In all honesty, Clara found the whole thing rather challenging. She'd never really had to gain anyones trust before, using her flirty nature and good looks to her advantage, and when failing that taking the 'damsel in distress' role. Friendship was not something she knew how to act. It was all very alien to her.

She'd had one friend once, when she was five. It had ended in three dead bodies and a very angry Father. Rule number one in the Oswald's household: look out for yourself. Friendship was not an advantage.

But she adapted well, and it seemed to work, because he was more than happy to share a joke and a laugh and grab a coffee with her at lunch, discussing travel and various people they disliked at work.

One day John was updating his records when the laptop went totally blank. Dead. Everything gone.

He completely freaked out and looked up for Clara. Though he wasn't sure there was anything to be done, there was smoke coming from the machine.

John's panicked shouts jolted her out of her thoughts. The smoke was not a good sign, and it somewhat reminded her of her kitchen the day prior, after trying to make another soufflé.

If the situation weren't so serious she might of laughed.

"No, no, no… Shit. Clara it's all gone."

She was up and at his desk in seconds, frantically typing away in desperation, her eyes wide in concentration as she muttered codes under her breath. The screen stayed black and she cursed. Rushing back to her desk she pulled out her makeup bag, which incidentally wasn't a makeup bag, but a tool kit. (Easier to carry around and attracted less attention in a pink Ted Baker bag.) Grabbing her smallest screwdriver she moved to the back of the computer, twisting the screws and pulling off the frame. A cloud of smoke caused her to cough and she waved her hand around to clear the air somewhat before inspecting the damage.

"Fan's broken… It over-heated…" Clara mumbled, ripping out wires and cables to get to what she wanted — the hard drive. She knew there was no saving the computer now, but she didn't really care about that, it was the information she wanted.

After all, her mission wasn't solely to kill John, but to get his research, too. Her mission depended on this.

"Why don't you bloody idiots use backup!" Clara groaned, her voice raised as she pulled out the hard drive, darting back over to her computer to do the same. Her movements were quick and precise, and it was obvious she knew her way around a computer, expertly disabling cables and wires because this time she needed the computer to still be working at the end of it.

John watched her in absolute tense fascination. She worked fast, he'd seen Clara using coding a few times but never picking apart the system and salvaging data like that. He was gnawing so hard on his lip that he drew blood, fists tensing and he kept groaning and cursing.

If he lost this he was well and truly fucked.

"It's the IT department. They're idiots I'll buy back up hard drives…. Oh God, if it's not too late."

Clara worked like it was surgery.

She was removing the hard drive from one computer and putting it into another. Seems simple enough, right? Well, not with these computers. State-of-the-art mainframe systems which were far bigger and more complex than she'd worked on in a while, and yet they still were too bloody stupid to backup their files. Too much was at stake here and she couldn't afford to get this wrong.

Finally she had her hard drive out, replacing it with Johns and reattaching all the wires, securing them perfectly and ensuring everything was as it should be.

Well, the moment of truth.

Clara turned on her computer, her fingers tapping impatiently on the table and she hadn't even taken any notice of John in her panic, praying that this worked — because if not she was truly screwed.

The screen lit up and Clara breathed a sigh of relief.

It was okay. Everything was okay.

He wiped a hand over his face waiting whilst Clara worked furiously away and then he saw the flicker of blue light shine on her face. John took the fact that the computer was functioning now as sign enough that his files were safe.

Sighing in total relief. He unthinkingly raced around to stand behind her chair and looked to see the folders opened up on screen.

"Oh God you deserve your Christmas bonus," he exhaled delightedly looking at each one, not realising that he'd put his hands on her shoulders before he squeezed them thankfully and stepped back, "who cares if you can't make a soufflé —that was impressive, amazing work."

He very rarely praised her and never like that. But he was really starting to value having someone with a brain about his office. John was well aware that without Clara he wouldn't have recovered that research.

Everything he had worked on, everything she had helped with would have been lost.

He owed her.

* * *

After that near death experience — well, not quite, but it might as well of been — John seemed more willing to give Clara important jobs. Much to her relief; these menial tasks were far below her skills and she spent the day wanted to rip her own eyes out from boredom.

And with John's new found trust in her she was possibly starting to enjoy her time at the company, her skills really put to good use and a friendly atmosphere now her and John were getting along.

But she was pushed for time, not as close to him as she needed to be and was getting pressure put on her from above. Letting her know that they weren't happy with the waiting time.

They wanted John Smith dead and they wanted him dead now.

And so naturally when she heard about the Christmas party her plans were set into motion. Parties — Clara could do parties. Dancing and drinking and flirting were all things she'd had to learn, and god was she good at it.

Clara arrived half an hour late, not wanting to get there before the crowds formed and be subject to painful smalltalk, something she'd avoid at all costs. It was a formal event, black tie in one of the most expensive hotels in London. Of course, it was expected with such a world renowned company. She'd dressed up for the occasion, hoping to catch John's attention in the process. Her dress was strapless and red, flowing material that fell straight down and complemented her figure perfectly, covering her legs but drawing attention a rather modest — but not overly revealing — amount of cleavage. She complimented it with matching red heels, trying to account for her lack of height, with lipstick and earrings to match also. The stares she attracted when she arrived did not go unnoticed by Clara.

Sipping at her drink she stood in the corner, watching on as couples danced and drank and laughed, everyone trying to be both polite and impressive as some of the most important people in the business were in this room.

The only man she was interested in was John.

She just hoped he'd turn up.


	4. Forfeits

John hated work events. With a passion.

At work events everybody became Jeff from marketing.

They all wanted to talk to you about irrelevant things and their lives when ordinarily you never so much as looked each other in the eye —aside from passing about paperwork or in board meetings.

He wouldn't say hello to these people if he walked past them on the street but give them a hotel and a free bar and suddenly everybody was your best friend.

But he had to go. Not only was attendance basically mandatory but if he didn't show up his boss would definitely skim his bonus. There were apparently some clients lingering around and he wanted to be able to point John out as their leading researcher, it looked good for the company if they were a completely present team.

He was still late though, nearly two hours. John had sat around at home purposely dragging out time as he chose one of his formal suits to wear. In the end just plain black, some designer he couldn't remember, and a bow tie. He'd had a thing for James Bond as a kid, bow ties sort of stuck with the theme. It was only small things like that which nodded back to John's character but underneath the cooperate mask he was still quite strongly himself.

When he showed up he stood in the door, taking a drink from a passing tray, it was champagne of some sort. He waded through crowds (hoping to find a peaceful spot to avoid as much conversation as possible).

John turned and spotted Clara standing in the corner, admittedly he was a bit surprised she was there. He walked over, eyes drifting over the dress she wore, red and hanging flatteringly on her frame, clearly having made an effort. She was actually very pretty, beautiful even, in that dress. Of course he had realised before that she was attractive but that wasn't why he was relieved to see her.

She was somebody who could relate, he knew that Clara didn't like these things either —somebody bearable to talk to so that he could avoid everyone else. She was the perfect distraction.

"Didn't think this was your sort of thing," he said as he approached with a smile, leaning against the wall beside her and sipping from his glass, "you look good."

Clara's lips tugged upwards into a large smile as she saw John approaching, relief sweeping through her. "You took your time, Chin Boy."

A smirk danced across her lips and she looked him up and down, narrowing her eyes as if she was examining him. "—And you don't look too bad yourself."

John couldn't help mirroring the smile. She hadn't stopped with the chin boy thing since last week and he'd taken to just letting it go after all of his refusals fell on deaf (and laughing) ears.

"Yeah, well, I was late for a reason… and I didn't know you were coming," he admitted, "I should have warned you how terrible these things are."

"God, this is awful. I've been here for nearly two bloody hours now! It's too… formal. Formal and boring. Lonely, too, when the only person you like in this god forsaken company doesn't turn up!" a small chuckle escaped her lips and she discretely prodded him in the ribs, glaring at him in mock anger.

She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol she'd consumed whilst waiting for him or her quickly decreasing amount of time to make a move, but she was was feeling a lot more confident tonight.

He was surprised by those comments, it was so seemingly out of character. In fact, if he didn't know Clara he would have thought she was trying to be nice to him. But he did know her and well enough not to take things too seriously.

He had practically finished his glass of champagne by the time he even spoke again. His main technique for surviving events such as these was to drink until he forgot how much the people got on his nerves.

He had actually never liked the taste of wine all that much but he ignored that and took what he could.

"You actually like somebody at work —that is a first," he smirked, "you weren't lonely. You like being alone; you told me before."

He raised an eyebrow at her but he was mostly teasing. There was no way was he going to return that compliment. Even if he would actually be telling the truth. She was the only person at work whom he actually enjoyed seeing. But he didn't do all that close team building stuff, not anymore anyway.

Maybe she'd taken to his approach of drinking, that could explain the niceness, in which case he was far too sober.

"Hmm… Well, I think we should just take advantage of the free bar and try to get through this. Sound like a plan?"

And take advantage of the free bar they did.

After realising just how tipsy she was, Clara took it upon herself to get John well and truly pissed. Strictly business, of course. He was too closed off sober — she needed to get in closer, make him trust her.

— Although her slightly intoxicated mind was also secretly enjoying the free bar and the drunk John who was far more fun than normal. —

They sat at the bar for ages like that, literally he wasn't sure how much time was passing. But this was the first time John had actually enjoyed a work do. Far more relaxed and more like himself, a similar John to the one that his old friends from home had known. He was being stupid and joking around with Clara in a way that they had never done in the office.

"Y'know, I don't like to be alone," Clara said, leaning against the bar next to John, all personal space long forgotten as she rested her head on his shoulder. "Jus' haven't found anyone worth spending time with. They're all annoying little fuckers."

"Excuse me, Oswald, but you're an annoying little fucker yourself," he countered her comment with way too much self amusement, but God he actually found her own humour much to his own tastes and was already laughing at the comment, "but I like you, really, you're much better than that lot."

And then she took a swig of her drink, a grin on her face as she dragged him to dance, stumbling slightly as she did so and making some joke about being nearly as clumsy as he was.

They danced for a while, her arms wrapped around his neck for support as they swayed, but it turned out even that was too much, with a combination of alcohol and John's clumsiness making them bump into various couples, before deciding they were safer at the bar.

She enjoyed this, she really did. The drinking and the laughs and the freeness of it all —- Clara never felt free. Not anymore. And she got on with John, she honestly did. He was charming and clever and funny, not to mention very attractive and often rather sassy in a way that she found almost sexy. They drunk far too much, spending the evening practically hung off each other, making jokes which really weren't funny but resulted in them doubled over in laughter.

Clara would of never have thought it, but she was actually enjoying the evening.

John was still chuckling about something Clara had said when he distinctly made out a figure approaching behind her through the crowds, a wave from the in his direction and a nod of the head.

"Clara," he laughed again leaning in clumsily close and his lips accidentally brushed her ear as he whispered much louder than was necessary, "it's Jeff, as in bloody Jeff from marketing, wife and kids and nothing interesting about him, coming this way… Can we please run away?"

No more dancing though. They'd already decided he should definitely not dance. To be fair neither should she in those shoes and after having that much to drink. That snooty woman from accounts had looked mortified by the sight of them.

Clara was more than relieved to get out of that bloody posh hotel, and soon they found themselves in some bar down the road, black tie clothing and all. But her dress was the furthest thing from her mind as they sat at the counter, drinking a fairly disgusting cocktail and she pulled a face — much to his amusement.

"Alright then, Chin Boy. First to down it wins. Let's see who's the real man, shall we?" a smirk danced across her lips and on his agreement she downed her drink, scrunching up her face in distaste as she forced herself to finish, smacking the glass down on the counter in triumph as she finished the last mouthful. "Ha — who's laughing now?"

He basically pouted and she just laughed, raising her eyebrows as her smirk grew. "You lost — you gotta do a forfeit!"

The bar tender, who'd she learnt was also called Jeff, but definitely not Jeff from marketing — she'd checked —, and certainly a lot less boring, leaned in and mumbled a suggestion into her ear. Oh, Clara liked that idea very much.

"What?" John demanded, "I'm the boss you have to tell me."

"Alright then, Jeff, get me a shot!" Clara replied, before turning to John with a wicked grin on her lips. "I think you'll find I'm the boss this time."

And with that she took the shot of vodka Jeff had poured, placing it between her cleavage so it stayed without her holding it, her eyebrows raised as she met Johns gaze. "Bodyshot time, Mr Smith."

John was going to correct her on the boss thing but his mouth was left slightly open when she placed the shot in he cleavage and looked at him challengingly.

Even in his alcohol fuelled, admittedly more-than-a-little-bit attracted to her, mind he could see that this might not be the best idea. That doing body shots off his assistant was really not going to make office chit-chat any less awkward.

But God that challenging expression could just about push him. Clara expected him not to do it, or to freak out, that was exactly why she was insisting —he was sure. Fine, two could play at that game.

"You're mad," he reminded her with a half smirk and he stared directly into her eyes, unwavering in his confidence, "but I'll accept my forfeit."

In his head he was decidedly less cool with the whole thing.

For obvious reasons and he also wondered why she was so okay with this.

But the bar man's expectant expression was the final shove and at the moment he was too comfortable with Clara to be really bothered by it. They'd probably just laugh it off.

John was looking at her with such determination and equal amusement and it made her breath hitch in her throat, the tension surrounding them hitting an all time high and she couldn't help but let her eyes close briefly as he dipped his head to grab the glass.

He was exceptionally fast, a split second near to her chest, his hands having to hold her waist because his balance combined with alcohol meant he needed the support. John caught the edge of the glass between his teeth, without even touching her, and he pulled it up tipping back the liquid into his mouth and then swallowed.

A hand came up to remove the glass and he took a small bow, placing it back on the bar.

"Happy now?"

His lips hadn't even touched her breasts and she was left feeling both impressed and cheated, but she maintained her smirk and gave him a mock round of applause, taking his hand and pulling him back into her with a smirk.

"Mhm. Very impressive." Clara murmured in a low, almost husky whispers, her lips grazing his ear as she spoke, and she really wasn't sure if it was him or the alcohol that left her head spinning.

And then suddenly her lips were crashing down on his, demanding and passionate, full of lust and desire and a need for him she couldn't quite explain. In the background she could hear the loud music thumping and the other customers chatting, she could see the strobe lights through her eyelids, but it all faded out as she kissed him, her focus on nothing but his lips and how they moved against his. Her own parted willingly, a hand moving to his neck to close all distance between them, a soft moan escaping her lips.

John was sure that final shot had gone straight to his head. John wasn't even sure how much of this he was going to remember tomorrow and equally he didn't care.

He could have pushed her away, or insisted that they maintain professionalism but realistically he wasn't going to. John was very drunk, thanks to her help and he had decided over the course of the evening that she was in fact very attractive indeed.

John held her jaw, whatever that music they were playing was pounded through his body and the flashing lights pulsed making the whole thing entirely surreal. He was caught up in the passion of this, of the way she tasted on his lips, the movement, Clara's response. It was just lust really, unresolved tension he supposed —but he did like her.

And what came next he really couldn't recall. They got a taxi back to his apartment. John made a few remarks about how perhaps they shouldn't be doing this but she told him quite fiercely to shut up in the lift up to his door before continuing from where they had left.

There was a trail of clumsily removed clothing from the hall to his room and all he could feel was limbs, tangled with his own, warm lips, soft hair, big eyes and a faint feeling that he wanted this more than he realised.

Finally she collapsed next to him, her breath ragged and heart pounding, curling up against him gratefully as he held his arms open for her. The last conscious thought she processed before falling into a dreamless sleep was that if this was what she'd grown up fearing she'd been sorely misinformed on the matters of the heart.


	5. The Morning After

**A/N: Over 1k reads already, I can't believe it! Thanks so much for your support. We're in the process of writing another fic, also Whouffle, so look out for that! Oh, and please review with feedback - it's really appreciated!**

* * *

Rays of unwelcome sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtains and Clara groaned, rolling over and burying her face in the pillow.

—wait, this isn't…

—and I'm not…

—what the hell is going on?

Last night came back to her in a blur, the evening seemingly measured in drinks and not hours, vague memories of dancing and another bar — not the hotel — clouding her mind. It was all to much to try and understand. Head pounding and stomach lurching she groaned, the full brunt of her hangover fully beginning to kick in as she was pulled back into consciousness.

But with consciousness came understanding and it didn't take long for her eyes to snap open, the realisation that she wasn't in her own bed sending panic through her body until —

John.

His arms were wrapped around her bare body and she was curled into him, their chests moving up and down in time with each other and she smiled unknowingly, the safety she felt in his hold something she'd never experienced before.

* * *

Something had definitely just wiggled in his bed. Something that groaned and felt suspiciously like another someone.

Actually, John was holding the other someone, in his arms literally pressed up so that they were touching. They were warm and very comfortable and he got the impression that they'd been there for a long time. It was not at all unpleasant.

But then he had to ask himself why and more importantly who.

Well the first answer was easy: alcohol.

In fact, he hadn't slept with anyone since his ex without being pretty drunk first. John just never seemed to care enough for dating anymore and he should probably have learned the lesson not to drink so much that you have no idea what you're doing. The second question: who, was harder.

His mind told him quickly that it was Clara, he could recognise the perfume because she sprayed it on in the office almost every day, it felt like her too. But it's just… Surely not…

He peeked his eyes reluctantly open to the harsh light.

It was: brown hair, smooth skin, an extremely distinguishable profile. That small person curled up against his body was Clara Oswald. His assistant.

They'd had a lot of fun the evening prior, they got on really well but even he had to say he wouldn't have anticipated ending up like this. Jesus. How much did they have?

He didn't know whether to feel relieved that it wasn't a stranger or concerned because of the same reason. So he settled for neither. John's head was aching already, the sunlight making it feel worse, pounding and jumping in his skull. When had this happened? He remembered that they were getting quite close. He remembered going to another bar but beyond downing those cocktails he couldn't find the rest of his evening.

And yet another concern flooded his mind… How much did she remember? John didn't have Clara down for one that got attached and he had no clue how he would respond to that… Especially as the idea wasn't that unappealing. That might have been his hangover talking.

A few bursts of colour and music and being in a lift flashed loudly through his brain and it was his turn to groan involuntarily.

"Do you have any idea how we…?" he mumbled gruffly, eyes shut again and he was deciding to ignore the awkward scenario for as long as he possibly could. He wasn't even letting go of her because it was too warm. John knew that Clara was awake. Probably waiting for one of them to break the silence and he slackened his arms a little bit.

Clara didn't answer for a minute, looking up at him with a hesitant gaze because this was not a situation she knew how to react in.

Someone threatens you? Easy.

Someone tries to kill you? Easy.

Waking up in your bosses bed with little memory of the night before? Well, let's just say that they don't have training for that.

Generally she had good instinct. Always knew how to handle a situation, how to calm it down, how to get out alive —- that was her job. She'd talked her way out of being killed too many times to count. But this? This was different. This was to do with feelings and emotions and relationships — something of which Clara had zero experience, or even any understanding of. You couldn't really learn that from a textbook.

"I — no. I don't remember anything." she replied sheepishly, reluctant to move from his arms as right now that was what was stabilising her, keeping her calm whilst she figured out what the hell she was meant to do now.

But surely this is what she wanted? She was close to him. Close enough to get the job done without suspicion, and close enough to be able to get his research before anyone found the body. This was it —- the moment she'd been waiting for.

If she didn't know better she might of said she was sad. But no, it wasn't sadness — or so she told herself — it was disappointment. Disappointment that this mission hadn't been as difficult as expected, disappointed in him for not being more aware, more of a challenge. She most certainly wasn't sad because she'd grown quite fond of his company. No, that was definitely not the case. Clara Oswald did not grow fond of anybodies company.

John looked down at her hesitantly and let her go, carefully putting the space back between them again.

"—ah, well then, we both don't remember so… No big deal. Honest mistake… It never happened," he said with care so as not to sound offensive, Clara looked distracted and he stretched his arms above his head. The silence dragged until he broke it again.

"That was not your Christmas bonus by the way."

He couldn't help it, he couldn't face it being awkward or strained between them. If John just kept up the usual banter then he was sure they were both professional enough to deal with this slightly awkward scenario (to say the least).

He chuckled and wiped a hand over his features with a long exhale, head still spinning. This sort of thing happened all the time, people who worked together, people who drank together, and he knew that she wasn't interested in anything else.

Best to just make this as easy as possible.

"Do you want a coffee or something?"

The coldness that ran over her at the sudden space between them made her shiver, and suddenly she was back in the game. Emotionless, distant, unattached. Clara couldn't afford lose her facade again.

She let a small chuckle leave her lips at his words, swinging her legs over the side of the bed as she grabbed her knickers which had been discarded on the bedroom floor, and checked with him before grabbing a spare hoodie, as she didn't really want to put her dress back on.

"It's fine, I'll make it." she said with a friendly smile, making her way out into the kitchen and flicking on the kettle.

Her bag was tossed on the counter and she grabbed it, pulling out a small perfume bottle, which actually contained cyanide, a poison. She barely hesitated in pouring a small amount into his mug, her actions quick and discrete as she checked over her shoulder.

Clara had done this so many times before that she'd lost count, never once feeling remorse or doubt — this was just her job. Emotions only hindered her. She remembers her first kill clearly, etched into the back of her mind, an image she saw every time she closed her eyes and it never left her. Not after twelve years.

She was fifteen, training since she was old enough to understand and this was her reward — her first murder. Knives as birthday presents and weekends of intense training as holidays; she'd been prepared for years.

But what they don't teach you is how to remain distant, emotionless, uncaring. This was Clara's downfall.

The man she killed was one of her Father's targets, already caught and prepared for her — she just had to make the final step.

And she did.

Nothing could prepare you for the look on their faces, clutching at their bleeding stomach, cries of pain and sobbed last words.

She nearly went insane from the guilt. There was something wrong with her, she was sure. Her Father had killed plenty, never so much as flinching and yet she was slowly loosing her mind. He quickly taught her how to be better, how to be elite — how to be an Oswald. After the third month of torture she'd perfected the art of detachment, all emotions stripped away long before she was released, long before she killed again. And when she did, it was easy.

It had been a long while since Clara had allowed herself to look back at her past and all it did was fill her with a newly found sense of determination, anger, even bitterness.

She forced her lips upwards into a friendly smile but inside she was cold —- dead. How it was meant to be.

"—John, your coffee's ready."

John threw on a t-shirt and some boxer shorts before padding through to his kitchen, the slate floor cold under his feet.

"Thanks," he said to Clara with an appreciative nod, picking up the mug she'd left on the side and he cradled it between his hands. He appreciated the heat, thumb resting at the rim as it steamed in the cold of his kitchen.

God, he felt rough today. Head ringing, mouth dry and he could really use a wake-up shower soon.

But really, what was he doing? Drunk or not. It was stupid to mess about like this. He needed to stop, especially when the other person was Clara. One of the rare friendships (because when being honest with himself he did see her as his friend) that he had actually held successfully.

It was good to have someone else around at work that seemed to feel as he did about things.

—-His ex-girlfriend once bitterly told him that he had a knack for screwing up relationships and the description had stuck with him.

"I'm sorry, by the way, about last night… I mean…"

Shit, he was awful at these things. John just didn't want to leave anything hanging.

"I apologise for being unprofessional."

"It's fine, I — I was probably more to blame anyway." Clara replied with a small shrug, sipping her own coffee with her back rested against the counter.

His cup was cradled in his hands, and she knew it only took one sip. One sip and it'd be over. She could go back to her life of running and travelling and she could take on a new mission, maybe in New Zealand or France.

But then the mug was rising to his mouth and time seemed to slow down, her heart beating rapidly and last night came back in short bursts of rambled conversation and dancing and before she knew it she was shouting —-

"No!"

And her her hands were reaching up, grabbing the mug from his grasp with shaking hands and chucking the coffee down the sink.

She stood there for a moment, back to him, knuckles white as she gripped the counter and breathing ragged, her heart still thumping and her head too, making concentrating difficult and she wanted to scream —- but she couldn't.

Instead she passed him her mug, which she'd only taken one sip from, a forced smile on her lips as she tried to calm her breathing. "Sorry, I made it wrong. Have mine. We like it the same anyway. I forgot you didn't take sugar, too."

John was left, more than slightly shell shocked, trying to understand what had just happened —why Clara had suddenly freaked out, snatching the coffee from his hands and throwing it out before he could take so much as a sip. He had never seen her like that, so uncontrolled and briefly almost manic.

He heard her breathing, knuckles pure white as she grasped the counter and then like a switch had been flicked she was suddenly almost the same as normal. A slightly forced smile that could nearly be convincing if he hadn't seen her smiling properly enough now to realise.

He wouldn't take the mug as she passed it, typically stubborn, instead holding it he trapped her hand from letting it go and pressed it back to her.

"It's got your germs on it," he said with an immature lightness he didn't usually use anymore as he smirked faintly, "I'll make another cup."

John did not ask what was wrong.

It wasn't his place to ask her. Perhaps she was just stressed —if Clara wanted his help she would have asked, she was too intelligent to sit around and be helpless. He didn't know much about Clara's life beyond work anyway, she didn't know anyone here because she'd just moved but he never asked if there were people at 'home' (wherever that was). She in turn didn't know much about his. But they understood that there wasn't a need for prying.

He flipped the kettle to boil again and just like that they carried on. Brief vulnerability forgotten.


	6. All I Want

_**a/n: Hey guys! So this is where the action really starts, so I'm sorry for the cliffhanging, but I'll be updating tomorrow (hopefully)! Thanks for all the support. And just a little warning, tiny bit of mature content in this chapter, although not overly explicit. Things will get a bit intense in the following chapters though and trigger warnings will be added where necessary. Please remember to leave reviews!**_

* * *

After a week back at work after Christmas John and Clara seemed to settle back into their old routine of casual banter, the party never mentioned. She'd shrugged off the events of the following morning as confusion, her hangover clouding her judgment and after all, everyone had 'off' days, didn't they? She was still an Oswald. She was still prepared to complete this mission.

And so she planned. She planned and studied like she'd never done before, going back over all her previous cases for inspiration, late nights filled with coffee and research which dragged on into early morning. By February her plan was set in place, everything arranged, and she'd informed her employers, who had assured her that if this wasn't done they were sending someone else in —- and not just for John.

But that didn't scare her, it's just how things worked in this business; kill or be killed. She'd had far too much experience with these people in the past to know that as long as the job was done, they'd leave her be.

The plan was simple: drive about 30 miles outside of the city centre, pull in at the side of a carefully chosen country lane, and call John to pick her up under the pretence that her car had broken down. A perfect setting for the perfect murder. Clara tried to convince herself that it wasn't nerves she was feeling but impatience, now bored of the case and desperate to move on.

Once set up she pulled out her phone, dialling John's number, gun hidden in her coat pocket for easy access. There was no room for mistakes this time.

"John — yes, it's me, Clara. Sorry for calling you but I really don't have anyone else to call… my car broke down and I'm in the middle of nowhere. D'you think you could come get me?"

* * *

Everything was as it had been, almost as soon as they were back to work they moved swiftly on. Picked up where they had left. John was relieved and the only reminders that the whole thing had even occurred were the few flashbacks that had hit him during the day after.

He did recall that it was Clara who had kissed him. A moment that had evidently surprised his intoxicated brain into documentation. He would have never thought that she would kiss first —drunk or not.

Not that he remembered much, but he remembered shock and then very quickly acceptance and response. Loud music, bright lights and the smell of the place… Or was that her perfume?

Sometimes he would glance at her and wonder about the morning after. It wasn't the night's events that bothered him, not at all, they meant nothing. But the way she had seemed so shaken up in his kitchen. Clara had excused herself quickly afterwards and he had been pondering it ever since.

He was sitting in his apartment, flicking through the TV channels in a rare moment when he had nothing to do.

The phone rang and upon hearing the voice at the other end he scooped up his car keys and jacket, asked for a location, and agreed to arrive shortly. It took him around twenty minutes, with traffic and a further five to find the obscure spot on a windy little country road off the main.

Finally he spotted the other car, an ordinary black Volvo —after a moment he made out Clara sitting inside. It was raining quite heavily, the sky a dark angry grey, and after he pulled up John pulled his jacket up over his head to shelter him as he made a dash for the passenger side.

He tugged the door shut behind him, relaxing in the calm for a moment compared to the storm outside.

"What on Earth are you doing on an obscure country farm road 30 miles from town… Let me guess, eggs for the soufflés?"

The fact that he agreed to come and get her without hesitation made her feel… gratitude? Surprise? Touched, even? Clara wasn't sure. She wasn't completely familiar with the emotion. Dismissing it she waited in her car, more anxious than she would of thought but she ignored it —- she had to ignore it.

Clara shrugged sheepishly, a small smile forming on her lips. "How'd you know? The woman in the shop suggest this farm shop, said their eggs were the best around — didn't bloody mention it was in the middle of nowhere."

He was just sitting watching Clara, she was being off again and that explanation didn't really add up either. The souffle thing had been a joke. She normally caught his humor right away.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair and glancing back over at him with a grateful smile. "Thanks for coming, by the way. The repair guy is on his way but I didn't wanna wait on my own, plus I wasn't sure if they'd be able to send anyone out…"

Her arms were folded across her chest, one hand under her coat, inches from the the gun which pressed against her side and her hand twitched, reaching for it — this was her chance. Hand wrapping around cold metal she looked up at him, wide eyed and scared, her heart erratic and she was terrified.

What was happening to her?

It was like her first kill all over again. Unable to detach herself and she looked at him and felt something so strong, something she didn't understand nor recognise. Maybe it was love, but if it was she'd never know. No one had ever loved her before.

It was taking over now, the panic, building up inside her and then crashing down like a wave. It engulfed her and she couldn't breath, struggling for air, before realising she was sobbing. Violent sobs that wracked her body and she couldn't control it —- she wasn't in control.

Clara hadn't cried since the twenty-second day of her training, after her first kill. It was a day designed to test her loyalty, a day of beatings and abuse and torture in the rawest of forms.

That was the day Clara Oswald died.

And yet here she was, in the front seat of a car with the man she was meant to be killing and she couldn't do it. The realisation that she'd rather die than end his life crept upon her and she knew, then and there, that this was love. Maybe not the strongest of forms but a form nonetheless — something she'd never experienced before, something she'd never understood, and her heart felt like it might explode from the pressure of it all.

"What, what is it?" He asked in immediate concern as Clara's eyes reached his with what could only be described as pure terror. Those eyes seemed to read 'help'. But it was like she didn't even hear him when he tried again to ask what the matter was, more frightened at the sight of her than he would like to admit, because one minute she was staring and then suddenly like in some strange fractured version of reality she broke. Sobbing right there in the car.

Here was the most well composed and ordered woman he had probably ever known, aside from that one night when they were allowed to blame openness on alcohol —he had never even considered that she could cry.

These were not gentle tears of discreet pain, her body shook and trembled with their force. Breathing running everywhere and sounding pained. John had never noticed that she was so small but suddenly it was abundantly clear. She had to be protected.

He cared. He looked at her and his heart clenched, thoroughly thrown off track. Nothing was right anymore until she was right. It was a realisation that hit him as his he climbed out of the passenger side, forgot to cover his head from the rain and drenched himself marching around to her side of the car.

John opened the door and ducked in, lifting her up from underneath so that he could sit and pull her into his lap. He did not care if she was his assistant or if they took pleasure in insulting each other.

Why was it that he suddenly seemed to enjoy his job so much more, that he saved the paper on the train because it had a Soufflé on the cover, or ordered travel guides online about New Zealand?

His first speed dial. Someone whom he had not even questioned driving out in a storm to find. The first person, in a long time, whom he had been able to class as a friend. Only she wasn't a friend, she was much more important.

Clara.

John held her and brushed her hair off her face and moved his lips close to her head to mumble assurances.

"You're okay, you're okay, I've got you. It's just us," he insisted tirelessly hands gripping around her shoulders, "I'm not going to let it happen. Whatever it is, whatever you're frightened of. I promise."

And he meant it, though the words had come out unthinkingly, he would do anything to help. He loved her. He wouldn't force that, he wouldn't expect that she loved him in return but he would make her safe. If that's what she needed now, he could do that.

Clara didn't register that he had moved until she was being lifted up on to his lap, protective arms wrapped around her as she sobbed, twenty-seven years of hell coming to a climax and she felt like she was falling inexplicably fast, tumbling down into the deep unknown. Because that's what this was — the unknown. She'd never known love but she was sure this was it, her hands gripping his shirt so tightly her knuckles were white just to keep herself grounded, his whispered reassurance the only thing that was getting through to her, and slowly her sobs began to slow, the tears still flowing freely.

"It's my fault. It's all my fault." was all she managed to choke out, her forehead rested again John's and his cheek now damp from her own tears.

And then — "I love you."

It slipped out of her mouth before she even knew she was going to say it but it felt right. That's what people do, isn't it? Tell others when they love them? She wasn't sure but honestly she didn't care, and all that mattered in that second was him and how he held her and how she felt safe for the first time in her life when she was with him.

How she felt a little less broken than she actually was.

By this time her breathing had slowed, her mouth only inches from his and she leant in hesitantly, asking for permission as she looked up to meet his gaze. Because this wasn't a drunken mistake caused by lust and intoxication, this was an expression of love and the need to feel safe, to feel love and to have the reassurance that he was there. Even if just for a while.

When he didn't pull away she let her lips press to his, tender, her hand moving to his neck as she kissed him. Slowly, softly, almost nervously because sex had never meant anything to Clara before. Just an act which she used to get her way occasionally. This time, though, this time was different. So different in fact it almost felt like her first time, and she didn't want to rush it, she wanted to savour every moment and explore every part of this strange man she'd grown to love.

He was frozen, in a state of shock maybe, because here she was like some sort of eastern wind thrust roaring and coldly into his life. The unwanted assistant. The one he had wanted to drive away.

But now she was what he needed, in her hurt and fragile condition, he needed Clara to be okay. Better than okay; safe, secure, trusting that he was entirely honest in his feelings. Because he had really not gone searching for this, for anything like this.

John wondered how he could be in love with her when he hardly knew who she was. He did not understand her at all and yet at the same time he did, it was in the things they said or the way she looked at things. The smirks or the slight wistfulness, the definite difference he could spot when she was being herself. Not whatever it was she was composed as.

There was something beautifully, genuinely, naive about how she said it. Like she wasn't sure if she was doing it right.

And he kept still as her lips found his, exploring, he felt like she needed to find her way first. It was like he had never kissed her before and he cracked, pressing his lips to hers with impatient, needy, firmness. Not in lust but in desire for more her. More connection. He brought her closer with his fingers underneath her chin tenderly supporting as he tilted his head and kissed and tugged her lips with his.

"I love you too," he said simply, no bravado, no stupid teasing and joking anymore. This moment was sweet, innocent and real. Extremely vulnerable as he pulled back and pressed his head to hers again, lips brushing over her cheek and fluttering over her jaw.

The rain pattered away on the windscreen still but she wasn't crying anymore.

"I meant my promise. I don't care what it is. I mean it."

"I know." she replied simply, no further explanation given because he could never know. And not just for her sake, but for him, because her refusal to kill him didn't mean others wouldn't. If she was to protect him then he couldn't know, it put him in too much danger.

Clara's lips found their way back to his and this time her kisses were firmer, almost demanding, radiating the desire she felt — the need for him. She moved — with some difficulty, given the small space — so she was straddling him, heated kisses pressed to his neck as her fingers found his shirt, unbuttoning them with impatience.

This was new to her; feelings, emotions — everything she'd previously disregarded as a hinderance. The vulnerability she'd shown him was surprising, honestly she had begun to wonder if she could show anything of the sort, her default demeanour cold and calculating. And yet here she was, confessions of love falling from her lips, emotions she didn't understand bounding into her life like a tornado by the name of John Smith.

His hands slipped down her sides, Clara was warm but the tips of her fingers and the edges of her lips were cooler. This was not the first time they had done this. As much as it felt that way. But it was the first time that they would openly confess to it having meant something.

John was numb to the surprise of her confession still, even to his own, they just weren't those people. They weren't supposed to be those people… Nor were they supposed to be a 'they' —not really. He'd sort of resigned to the fact that he was better on his own. Not better, but more secure.

Only this was completely destroying that concept. Caring, loving, wanting.

He moved his hands to the buttons on her blouse and undid each with artful fingers, he was hurried but concentrated as if this had to be done in a specific way. His thumb grazing her collarbone as it was revealed, he slipped the fabric down her arms, his eyes serious, desirous and captured by yearning.

They didn't remove all of their clothing, in fact in the confinement of the car it wasn't practical, but he did smirk more playfully at her as he slid his hands over her thighs. John's lips felt swollen from kissing and he gripped her at the waist with one hand, the other remained under her skirt to stroke between her legs, dipping beneath the band of her underwear.

His own breath sharpened, because intimacy of this level was something he hadn't experienced. John was hesitant in taking yet more kisses. God, he just wanted Clara to be happy. She didn't feel like his, but he felt like hers. Like she'd walked in and taken him with absolutely no right. He could have cursed her if he didn't love her, he saw damage that he did not understand and for some reason it only endeared him more.

Clara gasped as his hand stroked her teasingly and she let her head fall backwards slightly, her lips parted and eyes closed, a small moan escaping her lips and mainly because it was him. It was John and just the thought of where his hands were was enough to elicit a reaction, rolling her hips against his in fierce desire because she needed him. Needed the connection and the intimacy and the love which was oh so new to her.

After a moment she shuffled backwards slightly, her back against the steering wheel as she pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to his chest, her hands undoing his pants with careful precision, savouring each moment because this was special —- this was John.

She reclined the seat for more space and once they were connected she almost fell apart, her head burying into his neck at the intensity of it all, groans coming out in ragged breaths and gasps of pleasure. They moved together, placing sloppy kisses to his neck because that was all she could do, his movements her undoing as stars exploded beneath her eyelids.

It wasn't long before she collapsed against him, her breaths short and heart thumping madly, idly trailing patterns across his chest with her fingertips, as if she was memorising every part. Once her breathing had slowed she moved so they were more comfortable, the seat now fully reclined so she sat curled up on him, head rested on his chest because the thought of moving away just wasn't an option for her. She needed him, because right now she was vulnerable. Vulnerable and scared for the first time in her life and he was all that kept her grounded.

* * *

You know you're lost in somebody when you forget the fact that you're sat in a broken down car, the fact that as far as you're concerned a repairs van could pull up any moment and find you in somewhat of a heap of fraught breath and leftover bliss.

John's head weighed back for a moment against the headrest as he caught up his breathing again. Skin hot even in his unbuttoned shirt, despite the cold outside of the British winter that remained stubborn in being grey and rainy and loud. His hands trailed the smoothness of Clara's shoulders and his chest rose and fell steadily.

He didn't expect her to be suddenly soft or vulnerable or open to him, didn't want her to change at all really, but this small fragility in her now struck him enough that he felt he was supposed to protect her. He still didn't ask what the crying was for, he would do. Later maybe. But now wasn't the time.

"Is the repair van supposed to be here soon?" he asked, clearly distracted, mumbling against her skin as he kissed the slight dampness of her forehead and then down her cheek again tenderly. His hands brushed the disheveled hair from her face as he found her eyes again carefully. Just to check that she still seemed okay.

His question caught her off guard, brought her back to reality, as if she was surfacing from the perfect dream. But his hand on her cheek and tender look in his eyes reassured her that it would be okay and she flashed him a sheepish smile before answering.

"Er, well… I kinda lied about the car. It didn't break down, I just…" Clara bit her lip, fiddling with her fingers nervously before continuing. "I kind of have a phobia of driving in storms. I felt stupid telling you but… I can't do it. I can't drive when it's like this."

She hated lying to him. Hated it with every fibre of her being but she had to do it, for him. For them. If they were to have any future together, or at all, really, she had to do this. Unfortunately there wasn't another alternative.

So she bit her tongue and bared it, knowing that it could be a hell of a lot worse.

John looked down for a moment as she explained, he was surprised really —that the storm would scare Clara— and he supposed that was what the crying was for. That awful, awful crying.

The only good to come of it was that he finally realised just how much he did care.

There was probably something behind the fear and he wouldn't press. John accepted the reasoning and offered to take her back to his apartment for the night, they could come back and collect her car the next day.

Somehow he forgot the part where he could just drive her home. But she didn't seem to object to staying.

And from then on they just became we. Nothing really changed much but at the same time everything had. Clara stayed around a lot, probably most nights, they joked about how she had decided to just move in but it was all very relaxed. Some things about her stayed closed off, she insisted that she had difficulty sleeping and even most nights when she stayed round she would eventually leave the side of the bed she had taken to and instead sat on her laptop in the lounge.

Sometimes he woke up and coaxed her back. Other times she went and he didn't notice because she was always there again when he woke in the morning. But John didn't worry that much about it. Clara insisted it was just the way her mind worked and she didn't seem to be struggling.

Above all else the new affection, comfort and companionship they had was invaluable to both. It was as easy as breathing, as natural as humming along to an old song buried in the depths of your memories.

There was passion too. Suddenly meetings in the stationary cupboard became crucial parts of the research. They got the job done with the same professional and successful results but a lot of people at work had noticed just how much closer they were.

John hadn't even flinched when Jeff from marketing had asked him discreetly if he and Clara were a couple. 'Yes' his reply had been simple and unashamed 'I thought everybody knew'.

They had never needed to say it, to label it or to even ask, but after that evening they were in unspoken agreement that they were now, officially, together. At the beginning Clara felt somewhat out of her depth, unaccustomed to the affection and passion and love that came with such a relationship, but it quickly grew on her to a point when she often wondered how she lived without it before. Suddenly restless nights sleep seemed a whole lot less lonely with someone by her side.

Of course, she had to leave her old life behind, which was never going to be easy but Clara relied on her skills to get them through. After all, hiding in plain sight had been her life for the past ten years — unfortunately hiding from agencies such as the DALEKs was near impossible, with connections everywhere and a ruthlessness that matched Clara's. It was a waiting game, really — how long could they last before she had to take action? Her bags were always packed, a gun always to hand and her eyes always on John. Guarding him had become top priority and sometimes she'd go days without sleep, assuring him that she had got a couple hours kip but really she was spending that time trying to hack onto the DALEKs mainframe. Any information she could gather would be helpful, but so far no such luck — she hadn't encountered a security wall so complex in all her years of hacking, it rivalled even top government secret services, but she kept trying in hopes of something — anything.

Two months of solid work and she finally broke through. It was four-thirty in the morning and she hadn't slept in four days, knowing that she was so close to getting through vanquished all hopes of even a ten minute nap. By the time she'd found the information she needed panic alarms were ringing in her head, grabbing her bags which were already packed in case of an emergency, keys in hand as she ran out the door.

{ Planned attack on a Mr John Smith and Miss Clara Oswald. High security mission. Sixteen hundred hours. All guards on high alert. }

This was it. They had to run and they had to run now.


	7. Secrets

_**a/n: Hey guys! So this is the big chapter, I won't give too much away but warning, there is a lot of angst in this chapter. c: Thank for getting us to 2000 reads, we never thought we'd get so many! Remember feedback is really appreciated!**_

* * *

John heard a clatter, the sound of feet that he half recognised enough not to be concerned and then Clara barged into his room. Cold air rushing in from the force of the door being pushed open. She had flipped his light on and he groaned in confusion, sitting up.

"—John! Pack your bags, we're leaving. There's no time to explain, just trust me. Please. We need to leave."

"Leaving where? It's night time, you don't sleep enough…" He mumbled, "just get into bed and lets go back to sleep, okay?"

Somewhere in his sleep filled mind the request made sense, he naturally assumed she was just having trouble sleeping or…

But no, the urgency was real, as alertness hit him properly he climbed out of the bed. Clara was already moving around faster than he could think right now, tearing clothes from his wardrobe and stuffing them into a duffel bag. He pulled on trousers and a shirt before he started to help her.

And then he stopped again, confusion settling deeply in his mind and fear because of the panic in her expression. John's head was spinning and he groaned again.

"Clara, stop!" John insisted as she continued with frightening determination, her mind clearly set. But what the hell was he supposed to do? He trusted her but could she really expect him to just go with no explanation at all. She ignored his words and he felt himself go half mad.

He was respective of secrets but this was too far.

John helped her finish because she was clearly not going to stop until she did. He pulled on his boots and jacket and followed as Clara raced out the apartment —ignoring the lift in favour of racing hurriedly down the stairs. At the foyer he finally managed to catch her, breathlessly, worry etched into his expression in deep lines.

"What? What is it? Tell me!" He demanded, stopping and grabbing her shoulders quite roughly to make her look at him, "—is there something I should know?"

Because God knows what made someone come crashing in insisting that you packed your bags and left at this time of night. Not unless something really serious was happening.

Clara had been ignoring his questions because right now all that mattered was that he was safe — and they didn't have time for domestics. She guessed the panicked look on her face was enough to tell him she was serious, pulling him out of the apartment and not looking back, light on her feet as she ran down the stairs, adrenaline pumping through her veins, the situation suddenly very real.

Then he grabbed her shoulder and she was forced to turn around, her eyes pleading and filled with guilt, almost begging him to just accept what she was saying and go with her.

"All you need to know is that it's not safe here, okay? I'll explain later but first we need to get out of here."

And it was true. They knew John's location, probably had people watching them right now so she ignored his protests, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the car. She just needed to get them a safe distance away and then they could talk.

The car ride was silent, fierce determination in Clara's eyes as she drove in a seemingly random direction, doubling back a couple of times and taking tiny country lanes, her eyes constantly flicking back to the mirror to check they weren't being follow. After about half an hour she pulled in to a lay-by, confident that they were safe — or as safe as they could be — and she knew that his patience was wearing thin, that they couldn't go anywhere until she explained a bit further.

Clara sat for another few minutes in silence, her heart beating erratically in her chest from fear and panic and it took all her strength to force herself to meet his gaze, a look of pure terror in her eyes and suddenly she realised what people meant by love hurts, because her fear was not just for his safety but for his reaction; fear that he'd resent her, that he'd leave, and not only could she not protect him if he did that but she also couldn't stand the thought of being without him. Not now.

He did trust Clara. He had trusted her after not all that long given his track record. Not because she was cunning or had lied her way through, not in his mind, John had related to her. That was why he had trusted. That was why they had become unlikely friends.

So now, their bond being so much stronger —of course he complied. Pleading inwardly that she hadn't done something stupid. That they weren't running from police or… Or… God knows what. She was too clever for that, she was his clever girl.

So when she finally pulled aside and sat for those agonising moments of silence, he felt utterly helpless again. There was never anything he could do for Clara to fight away her real demons. He was never allowed to see them, only their effects.

And he had apparently had absolutely no idea of their extent.

"There are some people who want you dead. Well, they want us both dead. I hacked their mainframe, they were planning an attack for tomorrow… we're not safe anymore. I thought we would be but we're not. I'm — I'm sorry, John."

John listened to her speaking, he did not flinch, he did not recoil in surprise or demand information or freak out. He just sat and searched her face tirelessly again, head turning slightly to try and see the joke. See the crack in her composure or something to inform him that this was an elaborate prank…

"No," he shook his head in refusal, "Why… Why? Nobody would want me dead or you… You can't be serious…"

World leading scientific research, he'd been offered bribes well up into the millions to leak even a few finite details. It was a breakthrough, it was world changing —It was worth killing for.

He had never considered that he, of all people, would seriously face that threat. John made the error of assuming that these things simply didn't happen to him.

Though he was panicked he was still strangely serene, because suddenly the threat of death was not the most unlikely part of this. There was something more, something that made the pit of his stomach ache uneasily and his jaw tighten. Refusal, pure refusal.

But why did she look so scared?

"…how do you know this?"

She couldn't look at him. She couldn't look at him and see the disappointment and the hatred in his face and watch everything they'd built together crumble. So she settled on a spot in the distance, focusing her gaze there before speaking, her voice shaking as she did so.

"Your — it's your research. I was…"

Oh god, how do you even begin to explain? Where do you start? Oh yeah, by the way, the girl you love is a trained hit man employed to murder you.

There was no right way to go about this, no easy way out and no simple explanation. But he deserved the truth and so she complied, telling him what he needed to know even though it broke her in the process.

"I was employed to kill you. I — I abandoned my mission when… When I fell in l-love with you. I couldn't do it and now —"

Clara took a deep breath, a few silent tears trickling down her cheek and she wondered how much longer she could stay intact, how much longer it would take for her to fall apart completely.

"—They want us dead. They want your research and us dead."

"Clara, please, stop talking… stop lying to me… is that all you do? You lie and…" He managed to choke out a denial, as his hands went up to tangle in his hair and he lowered his head into them. It seemed to be screeching with the new information. As if it could not be computed, a monotonous high pitched frequency that would not go away. John's shoulders hunched and his eyes squeezed shut. A nightmare. This was a nightmare, it had to be. He suddenly couldn't look at her anymore.

That was why she had been so upset, that was why she had sobbed into him. Because she had fallen in love with him against her career.

"You murder people, you murder people because somebody pays you money… you could have another job… —- You chose to willingly kill people you've never even met before and you should…"

His stomach turned. He felt sick and he stopped as the bile rose in his throat, acidic and bitter on his tongue. Burning.

"You should have saved yourself the trouble. You should have just killed me. I can't love a murderer. I'm sorry, but I can't face that. I can't look at you, the woman who I put before anyone… and see victims and families and people suffering as you earn yourself bloodied money. Because I loved you Clara. I have never loved anyone as much as I have fucking loved you."

And then he turned unexpectedly nasty, so much anger rising in his chest to replace the utter heartbreak and ruin he felt. At the lies, at the trick of it all, deception, seduction —she had even let him live selfishly. Selfishly because it seemed he was worth keeping.

Some idiot she had managed to persuade into adoring her.

All those things she had told him, how did he not know that they weren't lies too? He felt dirty. He felt used and disgusted.

John's face went stone cold to mask the pain. It might as well have been a gunshot, there might have been splinters of shrapnel lodged into his heart.

"I'm not dying for this game. So make it stop. Make it stop and then we can both pretend we never had the unfortunate chance of knowing one another."

His words cut her like a knife, like one of her knives, one of the many she'd used to end a person's life. She didn't even know most of their names, rarely getting close enough to them, and suddenly she felt sick. This was the closest she'd ever felt to remorse or guilt because it was the first time she'd even understood the capacity to love and realised that others would be hurt in the process. Never had it even occurred to her that what she did was wrong, not since her training in which all such thoughts were beaten out of her, her morals stripped at the same time as her clothes — taking her sanity with them.

"—I'm sorry."

And what more could she say? Clara could have argued, she could have begged, but then she caught a glimpse of herself in the car mirror and such hatred rose up inside her that she had to admit that John would be better off without her. Happier, even.

Was she even human?

For the first time since she confessed her love for him she delved deep into the back of her mind, closing herself off as she found the ability to once more become unattached.

Turning the keys she pulled out from the lay-by, the only sign that she could still feel anything were her shaking hands, for other than that her face was a blank page; emotionless. "There's a motel about an hour away. We'll be safe there for tonight, they won't check anywhere more than half an hour away until tomorrow."

And then one sentence, a broken whisper, slipped through her facade, allowing herself one last moment to feel before she closed the gates again. "I won't let anyone hurt you, I promise."

John didn't take his head from his hands for the majority of the drive to the motel. He didn't want Clara to see him crumbling like this as everything he had trusted seemed to be gone. He didn't know who she was anymore —he had never really known.

The painful part was that he still loved her. Somewhere, some part of him, was begging him to forgive her. He also hated Clara, with such force it was concerning. She was a murderer —and he would let her kill him willingly. If that meant she didn't have to die. It made him hate her more as he remained tangled up in still caring, still loving, still wishing to protect.

He could not feel anything that wasn't distrust and hurt and revulsion. When he though about the reason why he wasn't merely another kill on the list his stomach turned.

He'd declared love over and over in trust.

So for now he would do nothing. He would treat Clara like his research. Ensuring that she did not come to harm either but leaving her out in the cold. Talking when only strictly necessary. Observing, trying to find answers to satisfy some desperate need he had for them.

Screw her. She promised to let nobody hurt him and he bit back the urge to add 'nobody but you'.

John would give her the same rights. He would not let anybody hurt Clara. It was their deal now. Staying alive.

They pulled up at the motel eventually, he heard the tires roll over gravel as they parked and he climbed out of the car, pushing the door shut in a dull emotionless thud.

* * *

Clara barely slept that night, insisting John take the bed as she was going to be up anyway, working on her laptop on the chair in the corner, her gun within touching distance and she was jumpy, reaching for it at every noise.

John didn't want to sleep, but ultimately he didn't have the energy or the desire to talk to Clara long enough to argue his case — yet.

Because he would in time. Refusing to be treated like some sort of victim or somebody incapable of looking after them both too. He was not a killer but John could still manage perfectly well with his own talents.

If that's what you could call what Clara did.

He wondered why she even bothered trying to be his friend at first. Why not put a bullet in his brain straight away? Steal the computer and run.

It was cold and dingy in the room and he lay, staring at the wall in the dark, half hoping he would just slip into unconsciousness so that his head would stop ringing.

There were people out there who wanted to murder him.

But he supposed he'd been around one of them for a long time anyway.

He lay so still that his body was in part shut off. John's brain and exhausted eyes the only things refusing to give up torturing him with thoughts and possibilities and things he could be doing now.

After a while Clara abandoned her laptop, John now asleep — or so she assumed — and brought her legs up to her chest, curling in on herself as she began to open her gates again, letting her emotions back in. She'd expected a trickle but they hit her like a wave and she broke almost instantly, small, muffled sobs shaking her body and she was just glad she'd kept her composure until John went to bed.

She'd thrown everything away. The first time she'd ever felt love and had ever been loved and she had fucked it up, her true self too horrifying for anyone to handle and she understood now why her Father used to say that love was not something the Oswald's possessed. It wasn't because they were above such emotions, or better than others, but simply that no one could possibly love what monsters they'd turned into.

The last few weeks had been the happiest she'd ever been, in fact, it was the only time she could recall being happy. Falling asleep in his arms, passionate moments in the stationary cupboard, the small, proud smile on her lips when people asked if they were together, the way her looked at her with such adoration and love.

Now he couldn't even look at her, and she wasn't surprised.

It was in the dark that John heard the small, wounded sniffling, quickly developing into muffled sobs. Somebody very hurt sitting in the corner. He wondered if she had just realised what she had done. Not that he was so vain to think it could be over losing him but in the lives she had taken before. What led someone to pick murder as a career path?

Clara could have easily worked for most companies similar to his own, much higher positions than just assistant. He could not understand what she did aside from the theory that some part of her that must have desired blood. To let somebody else's life drain out under her hand.

Did it give her a thrill?

The idea made him want to be sick.

He wasn't capable of believing it but what other answer was there?

All he knew was that the sound of crying was driving him insane with confliction. He had to shift his position to lay on his own arms in order to prevent himself from reaching for her, for saying sorry.

Fucking sorry.

Sorry that you're a killer. Sorry that you couldn't kill me.

Sorry that you might actually have some remorse for that.

Sorry that I love you still.

Eventually her sobs subsided but she didn't move, starring at the peeling wallpaper, her eyes drooping but never actually allowing herself to fall asleep. Admittedly she was used to it, running on little sleep and relying on adrenaline, but after five days of no sleep she knew she would have to give in soon.

—Not until they were safer. They were still too close to home.

Morning came and Clara was on her fifth cup of coffee, cheap and bitter on her tongue but better than nothing and she desperately needed the caffeine.

She woke him up at nine o'clock, probably later than she should of let him sleep for but she couldn't bring herself to wake him any sooner.

Their dynamic had changed. Cold, harsh, but reliant. He was only still there to stay alive and she was only there to keep him alive.

The drive to the next motel was longer, spent in silence as she went over everything she knew, calculating distances and trying to decide if her safe house might be a better option, but her closest one was further south and there was no guarantee that they didn't already have men stationed there.

So she opted for another dingy motel, now four hours from what she'd called home for the past six months.

When they got into the room Clara immediately checked all the windows and doors, monitoring the room and making calculations in her head she might need in case of an attack. Once she was content she sat down on the edge of the bed, her hands shaking and she couldn't quite tell if it was from the caffeine or pure exhaustion. She spoke to John without looking up because the hatred in his eyes she knew she'd find cut through her.

"Get some rest. We're safe here for a while but you can't of slept much last night. We'll move on again tomorrow, maybe even the next day. It depends."

* * *

The bristling tension between them prickled and cracked around the air like static. The car journey was long and straining. John made Clara explain to him what her current options were because he had to be informed. She mentioned safe houses and more motels and constant driving.

Really where were they driving to?

She wanted them to survive and escape this. That meant in all practicality that they could never go back. Perhaps he could never be the man he had once been again, a life torn apart.

Did she think he might want to start again with her? Somewhere new? New identities? The idea made his chest burn and the bitter taste returned in his mouth.

Clara told him to rest and again John only felt frustration. She was shaking, hadn't slept in days (and now he knew the reason for the not sleeping, that it wasn't just a little problem of hers). She didn't try to meet his eyes and he didn't try to find hers because they would hurt, no matter what.

"What are you going to do? Stay awake until you collapse from exhaustion? Don't be stupid, Clara, get in the bed and sleep. I've had enough rest to last a long time. It's my turn to guard."

He dared her to argue with him —-he was right, she had to know he was. It was impossible for her to keep going.

And she wasn't going to be allowed to be a heroine here. He was pulling his weight to get them both out alive, John was frankly offended if she thought he was capable of only caring about his own safety.

He, for one, understood the value of keeping people alive. A man of science he searched for cures.

"If you stay up you only put us at more risk. We both need to have brains capable of rational thought."

He was a Doctor, he knew the effects lack of sleep would be having by now and if she kept it up much longer she could actually end up getting severely ill.

Clara barely let him finish before she was shaking her head, standing up to make herself a coffee but she stumbled. She ignored it and didn't meet his gaze.

"I can't, John. You can't fire a gun, and I need to figure out how to get past their second security wall… Sleeping isn't an option for me."

And then she made the mistake of forcing herself to find his eyes, flinching at the coldness and anger, but she couldn't pull her gaze away now, frozen.

She looked into his eyes and saw their memories. A short lived happiness that Clara knew she'd never get back.

"Just, just sleep. I need to be awake so there's no point you being, too."

He was immediately infuriated and offended by that.

"Teach me how to fire the sodding gun then."

John was frozen in his angry stare as she met his eyes.

'Sleeping isn't an option for me' adding to that. He stood too bridging a few steps of distance and held her wrist as if to fix her there but she already looked too horrified to move.

"We are a team. You don't do this by yourself or else I'm going to leave. I'll just leave and let them get me. I don't care. You'll end up screwing this up if you don't let me help you anyway. Clara people die of sleep deprivation, I'm a qualified Doctor, I know. Don't patronise me, don't think you can do that."

For a moment he let his hurt slip into his eyes before he papered over it again too.

"Teach me how to use the gun."

It was not a request but an order.

Clara contemplated arguing, but she was far too exhausted for anything of the sort so instead she walked over to her bag and chucked it on the bed, pulling out a brief case and opening it up.

Inside were guns, knives even vials of substances unknown lined up in the top compartment. She selected a small handgun, testing it out in her hand for weight and hand position before turning back to John. She picked up the ammo, loading it carefully, before pointing at 3 small blocks on the top of the gun. "—These are the sights. You need to line them up with your target. It will probably take a few times to get it right, but we can't exactly practice in here so… Shoot and hope for the best.

Okay, so you should probably hold it with both hands to stop the recoil. If you hold one hand on the base and the other on the trigger, it's called the weaver stance, and it's good for someone who hasn't shot before."

She demonstrated, holding the out in front of her, taking the ammo out again so she could show him how to fire without actually firing.

"Once it's in line you just push the trigger, but you gotta make sure you exhale to keep your hand steady."

Hesitantly she passed the gun to him, biting her lip because the idea of John having to handle a gun made her shiver. He shouldn't have to do this. Not ever.

"Just — make sure you always treat it like it's loaded."

He watched her intently, paying close attention to her instructions. Obviously, John knew the basics of shooting a gun. That there was a safety and a way to hold it to stop recoil. Actually, it was probably only his aim that he was uncertain of.

When she demonstrated he could see Clara, for a moment, shooting at someone. Killing. The image made him shudder against his will.

She was fluid and well accustomed. Natural in her actions and speech, as if she was a tradeswoman and the case of weapons was only a toolkit. He supposed in her mind she was.

John took the gun as she handed it across to him, his eyes focused on the case still, they lingered on the bottles at the top. The weapon was heavy in his hand as he slipped it downwards into his pocket. But it was not the gun that was making an impact on his expression. Brow creasing again as flashbacks hit him hard.

That morning in his apartment, she had insisted that he didn't drink the coffee —looked paralysed with fear when he nearly had.

There was another wash of fresh anguish over his features, hand shaking slightly before he steadied it.

John wasn't sure he could handle speaking right now.

She had even tried. He didn't know why he was shocked now. Perhaps it was because during the night before, for the first time in a long while, he had considered her as a genuine friend.

And she had been thinking for the whole time of how she would destroy him, built herself up to getting in close to kill him. Clara hadn't counted on feeling anything and that was her error. Her sentiment for him was a mistake. John wondered if she wished she had just done it before that could have happened.

Half mad with anger and the other with pain he stepped up close to her again.

John reached and traced his finger over her cheek, same skin, same face, watching as she simply closed her eyes and trembled there in the silence. His expression was demanding and harsh but there was further pain in his severity.

Who are you?

She looked like his Clara. But she couldn't be her.

"Sleep," he snapped, pulling quickly away. Turning his back sharply as he went to take up the chair nearest the door.

She fell asleep quickly, her own gun under her pillow, the same way she'd slept all her life — ready to protect herself if needed. Her slumber was fractured, dreams filled with repressed memories and more than once she woke up in cold sweats, getting up each time to check on John because she'd looked out for herself for so long she wasn't sure how to let someone else help.

The desire to curl up with him was strongest then, half awake and scared, yearning for his comfort and then she'd remind herself — he isn't hers anymore. John Smith wasn't hers and he never would be again.


	8. Wounds

_**a/n: thank you guys so much for 2.5k+ reads! that's incredible! Again this chapter is full of angst so prepare! Although it does start to get (slightly) better (and then worse oops) from here on. Please remember to review!**_

* * *

They moved on the next day, Clara still trying to break through the second wall of security in the DALEKs mainframe and John still just as cold. Her gates were closed but emotions still slipped through, cracks forming in her facade and she wasn't strong like she used to be. She didn't want to be strong like she used to be. She just wanted John back.

A hatred for herself replaced her heartbreak and she wasn't surprised that he could barely stand to look at her.

—She was a monster.

Clara arrived back to the room at three thirty in the morning having gone out to check the surrounding area, positive she'd heard a bang outside but when she went to check she found nothing. Blaming it on paranoia she returned to the room, finding John asleep. She was soaked through, shivering from the cold and she grabbed a dry jumper and jeans, stripping off and quickly changing. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, long, white lines across her stomach and back —- scars from those three months of training. Brutal torture she'd told was to help her, but she suspected it was more of a punishment for her emotions.

Shame washed over her and she realised that although she previously had seem them as battle scars, something that had made her stronger, now all she felt was disgust and bitterness, hatred for a Father who had willing turned his child into this.

Into a murderer.

Her fingers traced the lines of her stomach carefully, a few tears dripping down her cheek silently and she found it hard to look away, her mind stuck in past memories that haunted her.

* * *

The night he spent awake, guarding, had been one of the longest in John's life. Not because of the task at hand, but because of his mind. He kept attempting to talk himself out of it all. The more he thought the more absurd his scenario became, the more bitter he felt —as he failed time and time again to understand.

That next day was easier. For him. Like he was becoming used to this new routine of running and distance and a brutality that he supposed was inevitable of life in the long run. Things may start well but they always seem to sour. This was the worst example of his new theory.

He had started making plots on a map of the various motels they had been to and those that they may chose to go to next. The plan was essentially to keep moving until she could get into the DALEKs mainframe — if that was indeed possible.

And if not he supposed they were left in this relentless race away from the life he had known. His livelihood and his love.

That night he took his turn to sleep, dozing into an unsatisfying unconsciousness. He heard the door click open in the early hours and instantly John's eyes darted open to look.

But it was just Clara.

She was soaking wet from the torrential rain outside and he watched her through the dark as she moved around, changing her clothes as the wind howled outside and whipped at the windows frame loudly. The walls were too thin here.

Her bare back was facing him now and he noticed the ragged white lines, that snared her skin. Why had he never seen them before?

John continued to stare as she looked at them in the mirror, her hand tracing over the similar ones on her stomach. Large dragging marks on her body that disfigured what he had previously seen as smooth skin. She must have used some sort of prosthetic make-up to cover them before —- he did not put it past her.

John could not see her expression and so he had no idea what they meant.

Marks from jobs gone wrong?

Unlikely. He couldn't see her having been unsuccessful often, Clara was too organised.

They looked, to him, like scars set from the bite of a whip, deep burns and cuts of a knife edge.

When they were gone from view he spent the rest of the night staring at the wall again. Haunted by their image.

* * *

They'd be on the road for nearing two weeks now and they'd settled into an almost-comfortable routine of cold silence, guard duties and driving. Clara had long since accepted that she'd lost him, but it didn't make the fact any easier, and although she could push back her emotions in the day time she couldn't control her dreams and often woke up in a dazed panic more than she cared to admit.

She knew she was near to breaking through their second wall of security, after which she could access further files such as location and detailed mission plans, even edit them and if she was to ever allow John to return to his normal life she'd have to do so.

He resented her, and rightly so. She bounded into his life, all sarcasm and banter, witty remarks and playful insults and tore up his world. Made him trust her, love her, even, and now he was standing in the ruins of his former life, happiness only temporary and replaced by bitterness and anger. All she wanted was to keep him safe, to let him one day — soon — return to his life prior to her arrival, continuing as if she'd never existed because it would have probably been better if she hadn't.

In the second week they stopped at a motel further south, fields surrounding the area and after eating they went out to practise shooting. Clara corrected his hold only once, it was more his aim that needed work. She found herself placing her hand over his and moving the gun slightly, her breath hitching when she realised their proximity and she had to pull herself away to refrain from going any further.

They'd returned to the room in silence and Clara had to excuse herself to the bathroom, coming back with red and puffy eyes which John was kind enough to pretend not to notice.

But of course he did.

He did notice, everything, all the small things.

Sometimes he waited until he was sure that she was asleep and he said sorry a lot, only in whispers but he couldn't stop them. John didn't know why. He was still angry, but sorry nonetheless. Those scars still ingrained into his thoughts.

How often had he almost forgotten how things were working now? How many times had he almost talked himself into just accepting her, in choosing ignorance? But he couldn't. He was a Doctor and if there was anything stronger than the love he did or had held then it was his sense of morality. He could not ignore the injustice.

As far as he was concerned Clara chose to do this killing, this destruction. That was the part that he understood least of all —it made his stomach churn uneasily.

It was one thing lying and manipulating and making a mistake. But it was another to destroy lives.

The small flicker of faith he held in her was still present, he still desired to find answers. Something, not to justify, but just to give him an explanation. One that was unbiased and whole.

In all the weeks of tension. In the days she seemed to mourn too. Something undeniably human that didn't add up to the cold hearted killer his head was trying to pinpoint.

John waited for Clara to shower and in the brief time she was away he opened up her laptop and searched the internet for any information available about this profession. About how it worked.

There was a psychological report on recovered hit-men, those that had been arrested and subjected to counselling in order to figure out the secret industry and as he read he started to see patterns.

But then the bathroom door handle began to turn and he shut the page down, closing the laptop and replacing it exactly as it had been left.

His mind reeling, horrified, but he needed to do more reading before he asked her.

* * *

It was Tuesday night when it happened, hair still wet from her shower and in a momentary state of relaxation until she saw it — a shadow outside her window and suddenly she was on red alert, signally for John to get his gun and follow. Her footsteps were silent, agile, heading towards the door and as she stepped outside her eyes were darting everywhere, checking their surroundings because something wasn't right — all her instincts were telling her that this was it. They'd been found.

Her heart pounded in her chest but she was used to this, the familiar feeling of adrenaline pumping through her blood and she'd almost missed it — feeling something other than pain.

She backed up against the wall, signalling John to follow and she moved along the pavement, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever — whoever — was out there.

It all happened very quickly.

One minute she was staring into darkness, the next she spotted a figure in the darkness, gun pointed at John and before they could fire she was pushing him out of the way, instinctively blocking him from harm.

She didn't even realised she was shot until she saw the blood, seeping through her shirt and quickly soaking her arm, hot and sticky and she began to feel faint, fighting to keep consciousness with only John on her mind —- she had to stay awake. For him. But the pain was increasing and there was an excruciating burning in her left shoulder, gripping it with her hand to slow the bleeding and she fell, barely registering as her body hit the floor, a load cry escaping her lips even so.

The last thought she had before she gave into the darkness was that she had failed him.

Clara Oswald had failed John Smith and she'd never forgive herself for that fact.

* * *

The sound of the bullets seemed to be the loudest sound John Smith had and would ever hear in his life. In panic, with a wildly shaking hand he had pulled the trigger, forgetting everything he had ever been taught about holding a gun. It recoiled jerkily in his hand and he let it clatter to the floor with a yelping whine of fear when he realised that the other man had pulled the trigger too.

He saw everything in motion captured images, shot by shot, the widening of eyes. The bullet hitting the assailant in the head and the almost instant end as his lifeless body went thudding to the ground.

And then Clara, everything scarlet and pooling an a.

Oh God. Oh God.

Why wasn't he dead?

It was genuinely his first thought: Why am I not dead?

Dead. If he was dead this wouldn't have happened.

He was in shock, he fell onto the floor at her side and he forced himself to think clearly. Be a Doctor. Save her. That is all you are useful for now. That is all you can give.

John called the ambulance, he didn't care what that meant for him, if that meant getting the police involved and whatever else was the issue now. Nothing he thought had mattered did anymore.

Whilst he waited for it to arrive he realised he had to stop the bleeding. Ripping his shirt over his head he folded it and pressed it with specific pressure to the wound, staunching the blood flow. It was about keeping the bullet lodged in, stopping more escaping.

Blood loss would kill her first.

Who knew how long. When it felt like forever, time passing in sheer indisputable agony.

"Please stay alive. Please stay alive. Please stay alive."

With every thud of his heart he seemed to repeat the endless mantra until the high pitched screech of a siren approached and flashing lights danced over his eyes.

So many regrets.

* * *

He didn't cry, he never cried. But after the emergency surgery, after sitting for hours whilst nurses tried to examine him and take him out of his shock. John sat and sobbed achingly at the side of Clara's bed, his frame small and broken and just about struggling on.

He could barely think properly or feel the relief of her survival, instead he just sobbed until he felt it wasn't possible to do so anymore and then his shoulders heaved dryly as his mouth hung and he wailed quietly. So unaware that any such sound was coming from him at all until it died down into whimpers.

John must have exhausted himself because suddenly everything was black and he had no clue where he was. Only that same screeching noise scraping inside his head as the blackness rolled on in seconds or years. He couldn't tell.

What did time mean now?

* * *

A soft, steady beeping was what she registered first.

Then pain, indescribable, shooting pain that jerked her into consciousness as the bright, white light that surrounded her made her squint.

Where was she?

More importantly, where was John?

A bullet shot rang in her ears and her memories came back in short flashes of pain and terror. What had happened to him?

His name left her lips in a soft murmur, panic washing over her and suddenly she was sat up, ignoring the excruciating pain that caused her to cry out, the room spinning as her confusion rose, looking down at her body, wires attached everywhere. She tried to pull them out, hysteria taking over with John in mind. She had to find John.

Nothing else mattered, just him. She had to know he was safe over everything else and her whole body was going into panic in the paralysing fear that he might not be.

Panic, gasping, his name. Grasping at his name. Dragged him out of the deep. John's eyes were raw and stinging and bloodshot as he snapped them open.

Clara needed him.

She was awake and more disorientated than he was, panicking, looking for him though in many ways he couldn't see why she should.

He was on his feet quickly and he grabbed her hands to stop her harming herself anymore than she already was, pressing them ever so carefully back into the bed.

"Here, here, look, I'm here," he replied instantly, repeating until she stopped thrashing. John hadn't realised how he had instinctively pressed his forehead to hers, forcing her to look at him whilst he kept his hold on her hands, she had to recognise him. Tears trailing down his cheek fresh and cold and guilty. So, so, guilty.

Her hands were wrapped around his neck as his forehead pressed to hers, then on his cheek, as if she had to make sure he was real — actually, properly real.

Relief flooded through and she was sobbing, tears soaking her cheek as she allowed herself to collapse back against the bed, her hands gripping at him for some sort of reassurance that he was okay.

"I'm sorry — god, I'm so sorry, John. I love you." Clara choked out, her throat dry and burning and she wondered how long she'd been out for. It didn't matter now though, all that mattered was him.

Murmered apologises and repeated 'I love you's left her lips as she cried, as if she could never say it enough, never make him realise the true extent of her feelings.

And she probably couldn't.

Her life was now spilt in two: before John and after John. Before John was empty. Coldness, a permanent winter, her emotions a frozen river she wouldn't allow to flow. Then John came, walking along the ice and it cracked from the weight of him; the weight of her love for him.

She wondered idly what her Father would think of such weakness, before it occurred to her that she didn't care. He'd been wrong in his belief that solitude was a gift, that murder was a game and they were simply competitors.

No, they were monsters and solitude was what destroyed them.

But then again, every lonely monster needs a companion.

"You have to be calm, you have to, you'll hurt yourself, Clara, don't…"

He was still as white as a ghost and he kissed her face, her forehead her sodden cheeks and eyelids and lips until she stopped crying just enough to listen properly.

"I thought that you were going to die," he said heavily, heart thundering against his ribcage, throwing itself towards her, "I love you, I never stopped loving you. I thought you were just a senseless murderer and I still loved you even though I was repulsed by myself. For accepting you anyway so I shut off and shut down and I didn't cope and I wanted you still every single moment."

John was panicking so immensely, he was supposed to be staying calm for her sake but he had so many thing to say. His chest falling and rising in anxiousness to persuade her.

"—Why didn't you tell me what they did to you? That you were made to be… That… What they did. I saw the evidence. Clara why didn't you make me understand you? I'm sorry, I'm sorry for treating you as I did. I love you. Always, always. I promise."

She couldn't understand him, couldn't register his words and she shook her head, calming herself down just enough to resurface into the reality of the situation.

"I — It doesn't change what I did. I'm still a monster. You can't love me, you can't." Her words were spat out in bitterness, but her hands still gripped his shirt. As undeserving of his love as she was, she couldn't live without it, either.

—It was her lifeline.

Her following words came out in a choked whisper, her eyes closed at the memory, more tears escaped and she almost whimpered. "I couldn't protect you. I tried, I tried and I failed. I went and got fucking shot and I failed you."

And what good was she now? What use was she to him? Broken and evil, torn apart, scars not only littering her body but her mind too and no one would be foolish enough to love that. To love her. Would they?

Vaguely she registered his promises of love but she found it hard to accept, to even comprehend his forgiveness because she had yet to forgive herself. And then her mind was pulled back to those three months of training and she had to squeeze her eyes shut to try and push back the memories, her hand gripping his to keep her grounded before speaking. "It was my fault. The training was designed to break me and I let it. I gave in."

"I don't care what you did or why or to who, I don't need to know those things to know that I love you. I love you and you're not a monster. You're my Clara. No matter what. I was always going to forgive you in the end and now I don't even need to. You deserved so much credit and I swear to fix that. But you're alive, I can breathe again because you are alive."

The way her eyes squeezed in pain made John only want to grab her and fold her up in his lap again, like that very first day when he had known just how far in he was.

"You saved my life, countless times, you took a bullet for me after I spent weeks treating you like shit. Clara you have spent the best part of your life being tortured, mentally and physically and in god knows how many other ways. I am amazed that you escaped that enough to let me in and I'm glad you were so clever and so brave that you could."

Clara didn't want to talk about it. She didn't want to talk about the different methods they used to break her, the man her Father employed to devise a three month torture program, designed to eradicate all morals and emotions. She didn't want to admit to the pain, or let him see her scars. She couldn't help but feel an immense amount of shame and she shuddered at the thought of John finding out the whole truth.

So she moved to the edge of her bed, pulling him down next to her carefully, making sure the wires weren't tangled before curling into him; her safety net. Resting her head on his chest she let her tears fall silently, the three months coming back in flashes of pain and guilt and oh god — the guilt.

No one knew. No one knew what really happened in that training base, no one except her and her trainer. Maybe it was better that way.

She was sure if John knew the truth he'd never be able to think of her in the same way again.

He said unconditional, but does that really extend to the darkness in Clara's past?

"I deserved to be treated like shit. Jesus Christ, John, how can you love me? How can you even look at me? You don't —- you don't know the half of it. You should have left me on the pavement and ran."

He held her face in his hands, cradled her cheeks, and John knew what he had found only just skimmed the surface of a lifetime of abuse. That was what hurt him now. So much so that he felt sick and mad with grief but he reigned it in with the same determination.

"I told you, I don't need to know and I do love you because you deserve to be loved Clara, because of very selfish reasons too and nothing you say can stop that. Don't you dare consider any differently."

He found her hand and pressed it to his chest above his pulse and curled around her more. His medical training told him that they'd be scolded by hospital staff for this but he also knew he wasn't doing her harm. John was reassured.

"You and me. We'll talk, as soon as you are okay. I'll take you somewhere far from here and then we can sit and you don't have to say anything at all if you don't want or we can talk about everything. But I love you. That is the important part, the bit you need to remember now. I love you unconditionally. —-Understand?"

He had decided in a heartbeat that, as long as she wanted him, he would be there for the future, all of it, every single day to come. John didn't need a second to think or consider. If this process was long and painful or quick and a sharp turn. Irregardless of circumstance or horror. It was important to fix her for her well-being. That was all he desired.

"Don't think of it now, be safe now, be here," John pressed gently, his whole body curving around hers to protect her, he didn't want her to suffer ever again. Eventually this would have to be confronted, it was the only hope in hell he had of giving her some respite to her past. John would honestly have just sacrificed his life for Clara to have never been through that. But that was no use, his use was that he was here and quite probably the only one aside from her torturers who knew.

"What I need, is you, to relax now. Because the strain won't help things and you don't need it. Let me hold you and keep you safe and love you. Don't argue, don't feel guilty, even just for a few hours —-just this once, let me save you."

As the pain began to sink in again she asked for more medication, eventually drifting off into a fragmented sleep, memories still haunting her dreams with vivid memories she'd rather forget. But she stayed in John's arms and he was always there, muttering words of assurance and placing soft kisses to her forehead when needed, wiping away her tears with delicate touches.

This carried on for the next few days, Clara's recovery slow but steady, John refusing to leave her side and she was grateful for it. Finally she was released under the condition she wouldn't be left alone and undertook no strenuous activity, and they checked in at a nicer hotel nearer to the hospital.

When John asked how she avoided police involvement she was vague, simply saying she pulled in a few favours. Sometimes connections were useful.

Under strict instructions to not be getting out of bed more than needed Clara had a lot of time to try and get through the DALEKs second security wall. After all, they weren't resting and neither should she. As long as they were out there her and John weren't safe and a near-miss should of spurred them on not set them back.

She couldn't work for as long, her pain killers taking their toll on her energy levels and after two days she stopped taking them, frustrated at the drowsiness they caused. Clara could still work under pain, but she needed to be fully alert, for even in her previously healthy state this would have been a challenge.

Clara would never admit it, but she needed this work. She needed the distraction, because now her gates were properly open and she didn't have the strength to block off emotions anymore. Harsh reminders of the past were unwelcome and although she knew she'd have to approach the subject at some point, she was determined to put it off for as long as possible.

* * *

It was Monday morning, laying on the bed with the sun shining through the window and having just eaten breakfast she was feeling slightly better than the day prior, her sleep undisturbed for the first time in weeks when she curled up in John's arms and accepted her exhaustion.

And at ten o'clock it seemed it all paid off.

A squeal of excitement left her lips before she even registered it, concentration evident on her face as she typed furiously.

She was nearly there —

so close —

and —

done.

She slammed the laptop shut and allowed a large, almost disbelieving, smile to form on her face, dragging herself out of bed and enveloping John in a tight embrace. Hope. That's what she felt — hope and belief in their future together, something she'd previously regarded as impossible.

"I did it. As far as they're concerned we're dead, killed by the agent. They won't be looking for us anymore."

And then, with an even larger smile and a tender kiss to his lips she added:

"—We can go home."


	9. The Nightmares That Followed

**_a/n: wow, 3.3k+ reads! that's incredible! sorry for the delay in this chapter, personal life has been a bit hectic but it's here now! Remember, reviews encourage us to update faster! :P_**

**_Trigger warning for mentions for rape, torture and abuse btw!_**

* * *

It was strange how much his life had changed. After the events of that day John became more aware of the necessity of love. That cutting it out of his life would have been possibly his worst ever choice.

The severity of his own promises scared him, they made him concerned that either of them might at some point be overwhelmed. This didn't happen to him, he was never the man who was supposed to be absorbed by somebody else in that way.

But he was. Only finding comfort when he was assured that she had too. Only finding light when Clara was able to share it.

They weren't talking yet, about everything that eventually would need to be discussed, although he got snippets now and then in her dreams or when she allowed things to get to her. On those days he would simply hold onto her and assure her for now and for the future. John saw Clara opening up more so than she had before, but these things took time and he could be patient.

He saw that opening up frightened her because she had lived for so long being shut out by herself.

And through his happiness John couldn't express how much it hurt him to witness all she had been through in her life. Far too much suffering for any one person. The only relief there was that he could stick around and ensue she never suffered again. It was a promise to himself.

On Monday morning she practically bounded over to him, with a smile that promised something really worth it (and also a happy pang in his heart at the sight).

"You, are so, clever," he praised her adoringly at her news that they could go home, "you are a total screaming genius and I love you."

John was so exceptionally relieved to know that they didn't have to run anymore, not to fear another attack or chase. He leaned down again and kissed her passionately, arms wrapped over her back and he kissed the corner of her lips where the smile had been after for good measure. Because that was where it belonged.

Only one thing did stick out in his mind —home?

Surely they couldn't just return, to work, to his research and what about the apartment…

"How do we go back?" He asked, holding her tighter still, his expression happy but bemused. John didn't care what he had to give up to stay with her. This was life now and this was better than what it had once been.

"I — I don't know." she admitted sheepishly, the question stumping her slightly because she honestly hadn't thought that far ahead. "I guess we can't. But we could go somewhere else, together… or — or not together. If you'd rather. I really don't mind."

Okay, maybe that was a lie. Clara really did mind and if there was anything she wanted most in this world it was to wake up to him every morning and to fall asleep in his arms every night. To have a house they could call home and to finally start on the future they desired. However she was nervous, unsure and really not accustomed to the 'norm' in these situations. Was it too soon? It didn't feel it, but then again how would she know?

Everyday she was reminded by how much she still had left to learn.

To be honest he had naturally assumed that they were going to have a place together. It hadn't crossed his mind at all to even consider anything else.

"Together? of course together! I don't want to have a place that is just mine. I want it to be ours, as long as you want that too."

He had images, suddenly, of choosing a place and figuring out how they wanted it to be —-having it be theirs completely. John liked the idea. It sounded more like home than anything else could be.

"We can go back to get your stuff, sort out everything…" Clara sighed, pressing a small, tender kiss to his lips with hesitation. "Where do you want to go? Fresh start and all; a new city would probably be a good idea."

He swayed her gently in his arms, comforting and sure of himself, sure of her.

This was fast, compared to the 'norm' this was very, very fast. Most couples would have only just about said 'I love you'. Probably have only just started to be used to having someone else there all the time.

But most couples were certainly not them. No couples really ever found each other as they had. So relatively speaking, for them, he thought it wasn't too fast at all.

John was daunted by the prospect of picking up his life and moving it elsewhere. But excited too, because with daunting change came the possibility of having a life he wanted much more than what the old one had been.

What little family he had lived far off up north anyway so moving wouldn't effect that either. His life in the city had been about work, nothing more.

That research could be handed off to somebody else. It wasn't what he wanted to do anymore. It wasn't about helping anyone as he had convinced himself, it had really been just about money.

He was quite aware of how alien a settled life would seem to Clara, it was fairly alien to him too but not on the same level at all. But it was an adventure, their adventure, starting today and continuing for the rest of their lives.

"I agree, new city, fresh start… Somewhere still quite busy. I think a quiet place in the countryside would drive us mad. But calmer maybe? Or a short journey away from all the rush at least… We can do some research later." His face was fixed in wonder and then he realised how bizarre it was, for him to be picking a new place to start fresh. Already so involved and John smirked.

The certainty in his voice silenced all her doubts, even if only for a little while and she wrapped her arms around his neck, ignoring the tugging pain in her shoulder, pulling his lips down to meet hers with a tender declaration of love spilling from her mouth in the form of delicate kisses and light touches. When she pulled back she was slightly breathless, and if it wasn't for the shooting pain down her arm she would of happily continued, but instead agreed with him with a large smile and a squeeze of his hand.

* * *

The next week went by slowly, deciding that it would be better to wait a few days before going down to collect John's stuff, Clara still recovering, although she was taking her medication again now and the pain was a lot more bearable.

Lazy days were spent in bed, catching up on lost time, cherishing the abundance of it they now had — something that had previously been so limited. Clara avoided his questions, sleepless nights filled with disturbed dreams now part of her everyday life and as much as she tried to pass it off as unimportant, she knew that John didn't believe a word of it.

She just needed more time — or so she convinced herself. Of course the real question was, would she ever be ready to open up and tell him the truth? Probably not, but she suspected the time was fast approaching in which she'd have no choice.

Four days more of insisted rest on John's part, his worry for her recovery still evident, and Clara was growing restless. It was hard to tell if her snappiness was due to boredom, exhaustion or pain. She suspected all three, although John did an excellent job at calming her down.

They decided to go back to the city to sort everything out, staying in Clara's apartment because her address wasn't in the DALEKs database whereas John's was, making hers the safer choice of the two, and both rather sick of hotels. It occurred to her when they arrived that he hadn't seen her flat before, although it was only temporary and nothing special, which was why she'd always stayed at his. There were no personal touches or memories, nothing that suggested the apartment had been lived in for the best part of half a year.

But she supposed all of that would come with John and their home together.

They hadn't quite decided on the city yet, although they had discussed that a small house would be more practical rather than another apartment, and she knew they'd have to decide soon so they could start looking at places. Luckily money was no concern; Clara's job had paid generously and so had John's. It also meant neither had to rush back into work, which Clara was grateful for, her future undecided in terms of a new career. Once set up and stable, however, she planned to give the majority of the money from her previous job to charity. She did not deserve nor want it and spending only made her feel guilty.

Exhaustion taking over again she collapsed into bed with John early, hoping that for once her sleep might be peaceful. It was a far-flung hope and she was left disappointed.

* * *

Back in the city John felt eerily wrong for being there. Like he didn't really belong anymore. They drove past that same hotel from the Christmas party, a bar on the corner sparking memories and he was sure it was that one they had been to. Even if he still couldn't recall much of what had happened there.

They had checked back in at his apartment, though they were staying at Clara's. John was going to have to pay off his last round of rent but then it would no longer be his anymore.

He was both surprised and not when they went in to see the place trashed. His draws upturned, papers scattered and furniture broken and battered. Nothing of value was stolen and nor were any possessions that he would have noticed. They had just wanted information… Luckily for John it hadn't been there. It was all on his hard drive at work but security was far too tight for anything to happen there.

Back at Clara's flat they had decided to take an early night, it had been an emotionally draining day to say the least. He fell into sleep quite easily, holding her as he had grown used to doing, his breathing was shallow and regular. Calm and still but he always remained half alert, instinctively after the first night terror had haunted her.

Tonight he was stirred by the small but firm fists that balled up and clenched at his chest, pounding feebly with weaker and weaker hits. Her frame trembled severely and words tumbled out brokenly from her lips. Clara had never spoken so clearly before in her sleep and he looked in fixed horror as she did, the nightmarish insight into just the smallest glimpse of what she had endured making his stomach clench with nausea —-the words were getting more and more hysterical as they progressed.

His eyes, cold and narrowed, were not a sight Clara ever forgot. Nor was his smile, unforgiving and upturned, smirking at the pain he inflicted. When he approached her she never knew if he was going to rape or beat her and she could never decide which would be worse.

_That image was what haunted her. Her door opening, backed up in the corner in fear but there was no where to run, no where to hide and she was defenceless as he walked towards her, amusement dancing in his eyes, filling her with disgust. She could still remember the terror which pulsed through her veins at his every step, could still hear her heart pounding and feel her body trembling._

_Normally the dreams stopped before he reached her, enough for her to wake up in cold, panicked sweats but it could have been worse and she was grateful for the fact it wasn't._

_Until, of course, it was._

_This time he didn't stop before he reached her. This time she relieved it all, her fists punching at his chest and crying out, begging — pleading — for the mercy he never gave. It felt so real, too real, and she was sobbing, her whole body shaking, borderline hysterical. _

"No — please… Please don't. I'm sorry. Just don't — step away from me! Please! What are you doing? No! No! Get off me!"

She was crying through her dream, pushing more harshly against him between sobs and her breathing was ragged, hitched in pure panic.

How could anybody be so cruel? How could anyone make his Clara suffer?

You're not advised to wake sleep talkers. But John couldn't just let this go on anymore. It was becoming too much. He settled on catching one fist delicately instead, leaving the other free so she didn't assume she was being restrained.

"You're okay, you're safe, it's a dream," he said in a quiet soothing voice kissing her damp forehead softly as he often did to wake her up, "come now, my Clara, you're okay now."

You will be. You will be okay. I promise.

A voice — John's voice — pulled her out of her dream but she was too disorientated, tears soaking his top as she pounded her free fist into his chest. "Please! Stop! Don't — just please. Don't."

And then his lips were pressing soft kisses to her forehead and his words finally filtering through, her eyes fluttering open to meet his and she collapsed into his arms, gasps for air escaping between violent sobs and she didn't even realise she was still begging him — begging him to make it stop.

"Please, make it stop. I'll do anything to make it stop."

John pulled her tensely as close as possible into his grip as soon as she collapsed against him. His pulse hammering fast with his breathing as he tried to separate his consternation and heartbreak for any way of helping.

It was when the begging started, to him, that he clutched the back of her hair to hide her against him, let her burrow away —-If he could protect Clara from the world, from her past, from her mind he would give his existence to do so.

There was a disgusting feelings of helplessness that made him bite down so hard on his cheek he could taste the metallic zing of blood on his tongue.

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so, sorry. Be here. Be with me. I will make it stop. I'll do anything to make it stop, concentrate on being here," his voice trembled but he forced that weakness away in the ferocity of his love and anger and protectiveness, "you have to tell me. No more running away. You might never feel ready but it has to go away, the only way for it to stop hindering you like this is if you can allow it to leave you. It's going to be scary and you're going to remember things you don't want to. I'm sorry. My love. I am so very sorry that I wasn't there to save you or steal you away before the damage was done."

He sighed shakily again, letting himself feel pain for Clara, as if mourning it would somehow resolve some of her own. He gained composure as his brain raced for the right words.

Words were what mattered now, they were his only route into her head and his only way of lifting out what he could from the horrors inside.

"We can't undo the past but we can chose how it gets at us. It won't get you anymore. It won't —you are, without doubt, my entire life. See these hands?" He placed one on either side of her face and stroked at the tears that continued to fall anyway with relentless determination, "What they hold between them is everything that makes me wake up in the morning and smile when I'm sad. So I'll take your pain, as much as I can and help you. But I beg you Clara, to please, let me. For us."

Slowly her sobs began to ease, tears still falling but her hysteria calming and she could finally focus on him — on John. Her John. She was back in reality with him and she was safe and that was all that mattered.

But then he we asking her to do exactly what she'd been avoiding for so long, exactly what she knew she had to do but found so hard; open up. It was as if the words themselves were fighting to stay unspoken, scratching at her throat as she tried to force them out of her mouth and even then they made very little sense, incoherent murmurs of apologises and fear.

His hands on her cheeks steadied her, holding her above water, keeping her afloat as she tried to escape the waves pounding at her limp body. Clara saw the pain in his eyes and the way his gaze begged her to give in, to just spill out the horrors of her past because he couldn't fight her demons unknown, nor could she banish ones inside of her.

She had to let them out.

And so she did, there was a few minutes of silence before she spoke, her words broken and fractured, sentences interrupted by sobs, many of which she suspected made little sense, but she poured it out anyway. Word by word her life unravelled into the palm of his hands.

"The first time I killed someone I was fifteen. Nearly went insane with guilt and tried to run away, but my Father had the top security and I hardly made it out of the front door. I was a disappointment, the only one of the family who was weak enough to show emotions and I was a disgrace to the Oswald's name. So he sent me away — employed someone to…" she paused, her breath hitching and she refused to meet his eyes. "—train me."

Every time she closed her eyes his eyes were staring back in the darkness, haunting her, teasing her — the only two eyes she saw for three months and the two eyes she'd never forget. Her gaze fixed on John and her hand tightening it's grip on his shirt, as if he were her only lifeline left, desperately trying to keep herself grounded.

Now she'd started talking she couldn't stop, memories resurfacing and spilling out of her mouth before she even registered them.

"The whole point was to break me. Break me so that the only way I could cope was to develop the skill of shutting everything down. Emotions, memories, morals. Everything.

—They needed me to be their killer, and I couldn't. Not as myself, not with the emotions I still possessed at fifteen.

So for three months I only saw this one man and —"

Voice hitching in her throat she repressed a sob, her hands shaking violently as the tears falling rapidly.

"— he broke me. He broke me in three fucking months, John. That's all it took to turn me into — into — this.

The scars, the ones you saw, they were from the third month mainly. He'd —- well, he'd beat me. His favourites were whipping and cutting, said he liked to see me bleed. But if that didn't work, if he wasn't satisfied, he'd… he'd rape me." Clara shuddered at the memory and her voice was cracking, the words feeling dirty as they left her mouth — she felt dirty as they left her mouth. Spoiled goods, stripped of her worth and left as an empty shell. Forever doomed to be unloved.

Stripped of her innocence at age fifteen, knowledge that the only future that laid before her was bleak, she chose to not feel at all.

It seemed the lesser of two evils, although now she wondered. What had it turned her into?

"Fifteen," was all he could croak miserably, his eyes sinking with immeasurable guilt and painstaking empathy. John listened sorrowfully as she made her way through explaining this to him, the horrors of her past, he never patronised her with words or apologies that they both knew wouldn't really change this. He had expressed time and time again already just how sorry he was that this was how her life had begun. That this was abuse and suffering and pain she had faced.

Inflicted upon her by her own father. It was too disgusting to believe that anyone could do that. Anyone at all but her father.

He had never prepared for the extent of the torture. No matter what he was always going to be appalled and abhorred and frighteningly angry. Anger that stemmed not just from himself to the people who hurt Clara but to the world. The universe. The question he wanted to scream out to every moment of it was a simple one: why Clara, why let that happen to her?

But there wasn't ever going to be an answer and his wrath was wasted.

He was like fire and ice and rage all at once but he had to deflect those feelings. Save them for when he was alone.

The things was…

—the one he had to keep reminding himself—

…that Clara was the most important element. Listening and being here the closest that he could come to fixing her past. He had to embrace it instead. All that sadness and suffering and everything else that made him want to burst because it was far, far, too much.

John just had to try his best to understand.

She knew already of course, they knew it themselves, any idiot would know it but that didn't stop his mouth from opening. Sometimes simpler words were the best.

"Everything about that was wrong."

And then the part she seemed to visibly struggle with.

"But it was never, ever, your fault."

**_{ Many days you wonder how you, a mere child of the earth, of soil and subtle suffering, could ever be worthy of this man, who is a collision of celestial graces, like comets painting fire across a lightless sky. }_**

"I'm not — I'm broken. I don't deserve you. This. A normal life — any of it. I don't have the right." Clara trailed off, her insecurities surfacing as she began to calm.

John was incredible. Mad, utterly mad, but extremely clever and so, so selfless. A Doctor — he saved people. He saved people and she killed them, and that simple fact alone was enough to demonstrate how unworthy she was of such a man. She found it difficult to believe that the abuse did anything other than bring out what was already inside of her — an evil that had laid dormant. "I killed people."

He could be compared to supernovas and astroids and his beauty astounded her, the radiance of him seeping into her darkest pores, cleansing them. He rid her body of the toxicity of hatred and selfishness, burning down the walls she'd created with ease, teaching her to feel — to love — for the first time in her life.

"You could have so much better—-"

"—yeah well you saved me too and my hands aren't clean either no matter what you argue… You are good. You are a good person and what happened to you doesn't make that different. It's a cruel world and a crueler universe, but you know what? You killed people because for a while somebody else had managed to kill you inside. I'd have given in so much faster, never recovered… And look at you. Braveheart Clara —just look at you now!"

John's eyes glistened and he smiled so proudly at her that his chest filled with a very different feeling from the bitterness of only moments ago.

What did he see when he looked at her?

Somebody broken maybe, somebody who could do with some time to be helped back onto her feet. But most definitely somebody worthy of love and happiness and possibly someone who deserved even more than he could give to her but my God would he try to give it anyway.

**_{ But in the end, he is a star and no one in the galaxy has ever loved the stars as fiercely and as truly as you. }_**

The look in his eyes silenced her. Adoration and sympathy and a burning desire to help her was evident, so very clear, and there was no point in even doubting his love. Not for one second could she ever truly believe he didn't love her more than the universe itself, no matter how dark her mindset, he was very clear on his emotions and she matched them.

And in the end, isn't love what everyone strives for? Forget purity and beliefs over who's more deserving. Forget unavoidable problems and the baggage others carry. If you love that person it won't matter. After all, loving someone is not about denying their faults, it's about loving their flaws as much as their beauty and accepting them all the same.

No matter how badly she tried to convince herself this was wrong, that this was selfish, Clara knew she'd accept John if the roles were reversed. Nothing he ever did could ever make her love him any less.

"—But I love you, and I bloody well hope that's enough."

"Definitely enough. More than enough. Thank you."

There he saw a window, a break in the flow of tears to dry her eyes again, and he did carefully and thoughtfully. Well aware of the past and all the aches and pains it carried with it. But he didn't care. She was remarkable and beautiful and clever and kind and brave…

But above all she was Clara.

"The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don't always soften the bad things, but vice versa the bad things don't always spoil the good things and make them unimportant. You have more right to a beautiful life than anybody I know and it would be my honour and privilege to build one with you. Good things and bad things included —what do you reckon? Deal?"

Of course it was a deal — it had always been a deal. Because as much as Clara hated and resented her past, she knew it wouldn't be her past if it wasn't for him. Without John it would still very much be her present and there would always be a part of her terrified that she might slip back into it again.

A part of her would always be terrified that she was crazy. Crazy, evil, a psychopath — and it was very likely that she was. But John didn't seem to think so and she trusted his judgment over her own so she pushed her worries away and pressed a small, nervous kiss to his lips.

She could still remember how she fought to shut him out, to keep him away and yet still get close to him. Keep her walls up but break down his. She'd failed in the former but succeeded in the latter.

And she wouldn't have it any other way.

Clara loved him. She loved him more than words could describe, loved like she'd never loved before and she hadn't —- she hadn't loved before. The possibility of love had been forced out of her at the age of fifteen when her guard promised repeatedly that he loved her, and that that was what love was. It wasn't.

Jesus Christ, it wasn't.

Because with the breaking down of her walls she hadn't only let love in but also fear; the fear she'd repressed for years and suddenly it was escaping, invisible hands choking her. Her own hands. Or was it his?

Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

But she knew, without doubt or hesitation, that John would never do what he did to her. That the days of brutal torture were over and by the look in his eyes she knew he'd protect her with every fibre of his being, just as she would for him.

And that was love.

What she felt for him was love.

What she'd experienced in those three months was not, as much as her Father had wished her to believe so. If she believed that that was love then she'd steer clear of such emotions until the day she died, or so he thought. Install fear into her perception of love and the disregard of emotions would follow.

You had to be beyond terrified to honestly believe that to feel nothing would be an improvement.

She had been utterly terrified of love, or what she thought love was.

It seems she had been dreadfully misinformed on the matters of the heart.

"—-Deal."


	10. Adjusting

**_A/N: Hey guys! I'd like to apologise at how awfully late this update is, exams are coming up and so things have been super hectic. But I haven't abounded it, and I promise there will not be another month gap in-between updates! Incase anyone is interested there is links to the two houses John and Clara look at on my profile, so check them out if you want. Please remember to review, advice is always much appreciated!_**

* * *

After making their agreement they continued to talk. Clara telling him things he almost hadn't wanted to hear. They hurt a lot, to listen to, to imagine or accept as being real. But he did, he was quiet and he listened again. There were tears of his own that he couldn't hold back with all his strength and lots of stroking back of her hair and clinging and reassurance until she settled at least slightly.

They hadn't even gotten that deep but it was enough for today. Both seemingly exhausted, particularly Clara, he coddled her into getting back to sleep. John made his arms stop gripping her in such a steely way in case he ended up hurting her, it was like if he could only hold on hard enough he could make it stop. But he still held close and tight. He still didn't sleep himself even as she did, too troubled by his mind and fiercely conscious of staying on guard —against nightmares, against life.

He waited a long time, once things were more normal again, when they started to smile and carry on a few days later. Clara went out to get some supplies at the corner shop. John left in her apartment for his first moment alone since their talk.

It was without Clara as his filter that the rage he had suppressed burned sharp and harsh like fire in his veins. Scorching, rising, and crawling under his skin. For the first time in his life he had the deepest desire to hurt and punish and kill. Not in self defence but out of pure loathing and disgust. Really if he ever faced either of the men involved in this mess he wouldn't be able to stop himself from reacting. The only reason John hadn't insisted on involving police was because Clara would also face prosecution herself… This was an elite organisation. They could blackmail their way through the police force and cause only more grief to them both.

As his thoughts crept into play, developing and twisting until he was so bitter it frightened him, John found that he had clutched the glass in his hand much too tightly. Only realising when he felt shards sinking in his skin and saw the blood as his fist seemed to clench harder around them, driving them in.

He pulled them out unflinchingly numb and discarded the mess, washing his hand and watching scarlet blood swirl down the sink. He cracked again this time with tears that streamed unashamedly down his cheeks.

Clara. Not Clara. Why?

So powerless and so very angry at the world.

John knew she would be home soon and so he dragged himself back into being one piece of himself. Cleaned his face until it was pink from scrubbing and wrapped his hand in bandages.

He'd tell her he just smashed a glass and cut his hand. Just an accident.

—Neither of those statements were lies.

* * *

Clara was struggling. She was struggling more than she'd ever let on and it wasn't unusual for her to run a shower to cover the sound of her sobs, or to spend nights forcing herself to stay awake in fear of the unavoidable nightmares which plagued her sleep.

After that night she hadn't said much, hadn't elaborated on her revelations, although she knew that soon she would have to. They'd only skimmed the surface and what laid beneath was what haunted her the most. Those irrational fears that clouded her mind.

For the first time in her life she felt loved and safe and as privileged as she felt for having him in her life, it also brought back unwelcome fears and doubts and memories she didn't even know she had. Sometimes he'd hug her from behind and she found herself jumping, as if the whole ordeal was recent. And she supposed in a way it was. The event itself was in the past, but the real affects were only just being felt.

Day-to-day life was still a struggle for her, too. More used to isolation, not fully aware of the conventional behaviours and still learning how to be someones someone. How to love John in the way he deserved, how to open up and equally how to protect him from the full extent of the truth.

It would take a long while for Clara to be okay again.

But she knew she would be. She'd be okay because she had him — she had John and he had her and there was nothing she could want more.

They'd decided on Oxford as their new city. Not too far from London, but still a safe distance. There was also a nice mix between the hustle-and-bustle of the city and the quieter, outlying suburbs.

There was also another, smaller factor in picking Oxford. Clara hadn't told John, but she'd briefly considered teaching as a profession. After she'd got herself back on her feet, of course. Whilst working at TARDIS she often snuck to the day-care centre, originally out of curiosity but it soon turned into a habit, never once letting anyone know except the woman who worked there out of embarrassment. Affection was not something she knew how to process and the truth was, she'd felt her first hints of emotion towards those little kids long before she let her walls down for John.

She'd heard that Oxford had soon lovely schools, and so with her own selfish interests in mind she swayed slightly towards that city anyway.

Of course, she'd have to study first, having only ever been home-school, but Clara didn't mind that much. Perhaps both the distraction of work and the possibility of friends was exactly what she needed.

They decided to stay at her flat until they could get their own house in Oxford, both John and Clara's previous salary leaving them with more than enough to get a decent sized house and not have to work for a while. She hadn't told him this either, but once she got a job she wanted to give her money to charity. There was millions of it, millions of pounds tinted in the blood of those she'd killed and she didn't want it. Not any more than she needed to get them settled.

There was a lot she kept from him, but she assumed it was just the transition period; going from isolation to a loving relationship. Clara wasn't used to having someone to talk to or to share opinions with, to ask for advice or to confide in.

But it would come in time.

Monday came and John was planning to collect his stuff from work, sign the necessary paperwork and say goodbye. And that would be it — years of work, passed over to a stranger. Idly she wondered if he regretted it. This was his lives work. He poured his heart and soul into this research and she had taken it away from him.

Her arms snaked around his waist from behind, pressing a small, tender kiss to the material covering his back, before resting her head against it. "Are you alright?"

John finished doing up his tie and turned carefully around to face Clara, he smiled a small calm smile and kissed her cheek softly.

"I'm fine," he said as they embraced comfortably, he pushed a bit of her hair out of her face, "not going to miss the office much and on the bright side no more Jeff from marketing… I might miss working with you though. But I suppose we just do that all the time anyway without the office."

It was true, he had enjoyed the set up. The routine of going into work and messing around with Clara. Getting research done and being equally proud of his accomplishments.

But that didn't change the fact that he had grown bitter towards the company. John was previously just putting up with it, marching on to do his work and ignore the corrupted way that everybody simply cared about their paychecks. Now was a good time to go. His research would unfortunately be sacrificed but he still had his earnings and the freedom of not being tied to a co-operation on his side.

Some new person would step in and finish from where he left and that was okay.

It didn't actually take long to sort things in the office. He collected his stuff, signed off his research and also made agreements for his 'leaving sum' of money. Clara quite conveniently removed the pair of them from the company records so that if anybody went snooping they wouldn't show up.

It was vital to distance themselves from all of that.

Clara didn't go with him to sort out things in the office. She offered, but he said she wasn't really needed — she suspected he was just a little wary of how she was getting on.

Whilst he was out Clara found herself scanning through real estate websites, browsing through the hundreds of beautiful houses in Oxford. They'd decided to look for a starter house rather than an apartment, both feeling that if they were to settle down together they were going to do it properly, and they could definitely afford it.

Idly she wondered if she should have waited for him, but without distraction Clara struggled to keep her composure and the last thing she wanted was for John to realise how much she was hurting. How badly the whole thing was affecting her and how utterly terrified she was. Jumpy and on edge, she was only calm in his arms and it wasn't something she knew how to deal with. She had always been strong, closed off, cold enough to deal with nearly anything without even batting so much as an eyelid.

She knew things took time but she was growing impatient and frustrated at herself. Angry at her weakness and often her tears were more due to self-resentment than anything else.

So she scrolled, flicking through pictures and taking notes, bookmarking ones she liked to show John when he got home.

By the time the front door clicked open she had it narrowed down to two that she wanted to show him. Greeting him with a tight embrace she placed a soft kiss to his lips. "How'd it go?"

"Fine, boring, didn't even feel like I belonged there anymore anyway, not without you and not how things have changed," he confided but that didn't sound so bad. John would prefer to belong right here and he rubbed her back tenderly.

Sometimes she jumped when he hugged her.

And it was in those moments that he felt the most angry. Because she couldn't even be hugged without some initial panic as she connected with her past.

The truth was that he was struggling with his anger, since the broken glass incident he had been progressively worse. When he was on his own he lashed out, let it release in a way that was less harmful because taking it out on things was much better than people. Anything could set him off as he was so bitterly disgusted with what had happened.

But never with Clara, John could never ever be violent with her around. He was security and the person in her life who didn't do that. In fact, he felt guilty about the fact that he couldn't control it enough not to.

"What about you? Didn't you say you were going to look at some housing websites?" He straightened up and smiled gently and with such heavy affection it was difficult to miss. He adored her, on simple terms, he was permanently entranced. As cliched as it may have been Clara had become his world.

Moving somewhere new, having their own house, was all that he could have wanted at the moment.

Clara pulled back from the hug with some hesitation, going to sit back down in front of the laptop and ushering John over with her.

Pulling up the two pages she'd found she looked over at him almost nervously. Domestic wasn't her thing. She'd never done domestic and she was almost scared of getting it wrong — because this was all so new to her. She'd jumped straight in at the deep end without first learning to swim.

She just wanted him to be happy.

"I found two… They're both three bedroom houses in Oxford. This one has a study, though…" Clara gestured to the one on the screen, before going to the other one to show him that one too. "But I love the kitchen on the this one…"

Passing him the laptop she fiddled with the ring on her finger nervously, letting him look through the photos with hesitation. It was scary, to be quite honest. This type of commitment after years of solitude was terrifying. She desperately wanted to get it right.

It wasn't like John was amazingly used to domestic either. But admittedly it was much easier for him.

He stood behind the chair she sat at, bending down to look at the screen. He didn't like how nervous Clara seemed because realistically they could move most places and he'd be satisfied knowing they were together.

So he looked in interest at the pictures of the two houses. Both perfect of course, they were pretty well suited to the pair —she had picked better than he probably would have. Getting too distracted by silly features like a pond in the garden.

Holding the laptop he stopped flicking through the pictures and pushed the screen down carefully.

"I love both," John confessed, "I really, really, see us there. I suppose we need to go and have a look in person soon."

He put it down on the table and cradled her from behind in the seat for a moment before he took her hand securely, picked up the laptop again and led her to the sofa.

Because he wanted, after today, to curl up with her and flip through more pictures of the properties. To call the estate agents and make appointments to view and book a short stay in Oxford for them to get a proper feel of the area.

He settled in ushering her onto his lap, stretched out lengthways on the sofa, with the throw tugged up to keep things warm. He perched the laptop on her own lap and they clicked through pages as a pair, John resting his head on her shoulder to see the screen and their hands both resting near the mouse pad.

He repeatedly took breaks to kiss her neck and shoulder and cheek reassuringly. Half-hoping that he kept her secure enough that this wasn't too overwhelming.

John did worry for Clara. So much, even in happy moments. He couldn't really be happy unless she was and he waited on edge to see her calm. It was always like this. But he almost preferred this to letting her be uncomfortable on her own, that was unbearable.

Clara relaxed in his arms, content that he was also and revelling in the feeling of safety he provided. They stayed like that for a while, flicking through pages and pages of houses before they called up the agents of the two Clara had shown him before, booking a viewing for the weekend. Deciding to stay there for a few days she also sorted out a hotel, right in the centre so they could look round and get to know the city better.

Laptop discarded on the floor and still curled up in his chest she thought now might be a good time to bring up the subject of teaching. After all, she was already keeping most of her feelings hidden, the least she could do was tell him what she could.

"I was thinking, once things are settled, I might take up a teaching course…" she traced patterns along his chest idly, something that had become somewhat of a comforting habit, but not quite meeting his eyes. "At work I used to go down to the day-care centre a lot… didn't tell anyone 'cause I really shouldn't of been. But those kids, John, I loved them. They're so happy and loving and innocent… they make me happy. I think that after what happened I need to… find myself, y'know? This whole feelings thing, I —- I struggle. There's so much I need to learn but when I was with them, it just came so naturally. Like with you. I think it's what I need to do, I think teaching is what I'm meant to be doing."

John listened intently to Clara, surprised really, more than anything else. But it made him unexpectedly happy. To the point where he was smiling much more than he had properly done in a while.

"You used to go and see the kids?" He pondered, stroking her arm and feeling more warmth in his chest for her. Because she was herself, through what was done to her. Bits of Clara had slipped out and that was really what made her so strong, even if she didn't see that, it was the reason he'd fallen in love with her. Not for the carefully planned flirting or her attempts to lull him into trust.

He had trusted Clara because he had come to understand her in a way that neither expected. John considered what to say carefully.

"If teaching is what you need to do, then I'll support you, of course I will —I think that it's a very good idea. I think you'll be brilliant at it too… I can see it well, you're good at being bossy, but also kind and empathetic and clever. What more could somebody want in a teacher, eh?"

He was really extremely pleased by it the more he thought of it. Everything seemed much brighter, he could see teaching making her happy. As an excellent way of having something for herself that also helped Clara achieve and make up for things in a way.

"There'll be tons of courses you can pick from. Could even do it from home."

Johns enthusiasm almost silenced all her doubts. Almost. But they were still there and as much as she wanted this — maybe even needed this — she was sure it was just some far-fetched fantasy. Oswald's didn't have normal lives — they couldn't.

But maybe she needed to realise that she wasn't an Oswald anymore. "You… you'd trust me? With children?" her tone was more shock than anything, looking up to meet his gaze for the first time with nervous brown orbs.

The truth was, Clara struggled to trust herself. Not because she thought she'd ever kill again, no — that wasn't her. Not anymore. It was almost as if she was a different person, no longer able to or have any desire to go back to the way things were. But she couldn't help but remember that look on John's face when he found out.

Pulled over at the side of the road, anger radiating and he glared at her with such disgust and hatred. It was not something she could ever forget.

And now when she looked at herself that's what she saw. Revolution at who she'd been and what she'd done. So many lives lost, so much blood on her hands — could she be trusted? Did she deserve a second chance?

Clara couldn't help but think not.

John scanned her face carefully, her eyes always so expressive, he saw a lot in them. Big and nervous and asking him to be really honest with her.

"Yes," he said firmly, "I do."

He didn't try to comfort her with touch and kissing and soft affection because he didn't want Clara to think he was placating her. He took this very seriously, always.

"You are not that person anymore, you picked for yourself, who you wanted to be —Kind, clever and remarkable Clara.  
You. Nobody else.  
I will always regret not… having faith. When you told me about what you did. I didn't know anything. I should have just been there for you. It was a shock I suppose, because I knew you. I do know you and I felt vulnerable for the first time ever —but it was because I know you that I should have seen behind that. Hearing you cry in that motel, even being as stupid and convinced as I was… broke me."

John hadn't realised he was going on a rant about all of that but he'd never felt so strongly about anything before. He couldn't contain his thoughts and guilt.

"Fuck, I should have just held you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Clara was shaking her head now, tears welling up and she moved away from him, perched on the age of the sofa with shaking shoulders. "No. No, John, you shouldn't have. You should have ran as fast and as far away as you could and never looked back. I — I'm an Oswald. I still am an Oswald and I always will be."

"Don't — don't be sorry for my mistakes. Don't beat yourself up because I was a murderer. Don't excuse what I did because you love me."

There were tears on her cheek now, only some of the repressed emotions coming to the surface and she didn't want him to see this. She couldn't let him see this. So she stood up and mumbled something about going for a shower. Leaving him sat there in shock she made her way to the bathroom, turning on the shower and undressing, and she was about to step in when she caught sight of her body in the mirror.

Scars. They were still there. Long, white lines on her stomach and back, a constant reminder of what she was. Of where she came from. She tried to keep her composure but with the shower running she really saw no point, hands gripping the sink as she bowed her head, soft sobs escaping her lips and she wondered harshly when all this would be over. When she would be able to look at herself and not despise the person she was.

John was stilled in shock at just how far she hated herself, refused to accept that he meant what he said and was not just lying to himself or to her. Like he didn't know what was real about her but he did, he really, really did.

Clara was wrong. She wasn't an Oswald. Not in the way she assumed she was.

Yes she had her past, she had the name, but being forced into being something for most of your life didn't mean you really were it.

And she was not that. She was just Clara.

He was beating himself up because she was a victim and he hadn't seen it. Despite loving her he had failed and that was what made him angry at himself. Quite rightly so because she couldn't see how unfair this was on her —how she hadn't picked what she did and so of course she wasn't accountable in his view.

Suddenly, hearing the shower turning on, John forced himself up. He raced up the stairs as if there was a fire or some dire emergency —in his mind there was.

He held his breath when he reached for the bathroom door but to his relief she hadn't locked it. Pushing it open John saw her standing over the sink. Sobbing in such a way that he really felt his heart break all over again.

She hadn't even noticed him with the noise of everything. Standing vulnerable, with all her scars on show like physical representations of the damage she faced. Small. Clara looked very small now.

Suddenly he was pulling her into him, in her upset Clara didn't push him away. John's chest heaving up and down as his heart thudded loudly inside and his arms wrapped across her back fiercely protective.

The pounding sound of the shower hurt his eardrums and he leaned around and switched it off. Dripping out until the bathroom was back to silence. Aside from the muffled sobs against his shirt as he just held her and held her in a vain hope of making those stop too.

Weeks of crying in the shower so he wouldn't hear, sleepless nights so she could lie and say the nightmares had stopped, excusing her jumpiness for feeling unwell all was coming to a blow. She couldn't control it, everything she'd repressed falling out of her mouth like a waterfall and she clung to him.

His arms wrapped around her and they stayed there for a while, in silence, him having turned off the shower and the only sound left was her dying sobs, slightly more in control now. Clara gripped him tightly, scared to let go, scared that she would fall apart all over again. And then he was talking and she wondered quite how he could love her so fiercely after everything.

"What you said, was not true. That was not why I excuse you," he said, "please, please, please, don't ever think that it's the reason why I do —don't ever think you're not worth that all by yourself. I wouldn't lie to you, not about that."

John pulled away gently and he looked at her, looked at the reflection that she saw in the mirror. His eyes trailing every scar and mark on her body.

"You need to stop hiding these," he mumbled a little shakily in the intensity of his feeling, John's eyes watered as he searched hers, "they're a part of you and they're never going to go away. But you make them beautiful because they show what is over. What is in the past and what you're moving onwards from. Even with these marks you are still Clara. Impossible Clara. And that is why, to me, they are beautiful. You are so beautiful."

In his conviction he dipped down to the nearest one, running across the top of her abdomen, white and stretched across the smooth skin. He stayed on his knees and he kissed it, all across it, with no sexual intent at all. John just wanted her to see how he really believed in her, how what he was saying was true. He moved and he kissed every other one on her stomach, slowly and tenderly, with the full intention of doing the same to them all.

Moving away she was left cold, hands moving to cover herself but rather than the places you'd expect she went to cover her stomach, littered with the scars she so desperately wanted to ignore. He'd seen them before, of course, but only briefly and she always covered them up when she could. Either using makeup or clothes, desperate to hide them in anyway she could.

But there he was, looking at each one, claiming that she was beautiful and impossible and all the things she would never relate to herself. And then his lips were pressing to her scars, trailing kisses along each one and she was both confused and stunned, before she realised what he was doing and silent tears rolled freely down her cheek.

She couldn't believe it. Those scars were a physical reminder of her past and whereas Clara despised them, John accepted them. Loved them, even, because they were apart of her. To her it didn't make sense. She didn't understand how he could look at her and not turn away in disgust but his words and kisses silenced her doubts and she'd never felt more loved.

"I love you." was all she managed, tears still falling but she flashed him a watery smile, no longer feeling so lost and vulnerable now that she knew she had him.

John carefully and tenderly really did ensure he found every single one, over her back, stretching near her thighs and on her sides too.

It was only when he was certain he had covered each one that he straightened up. Exhaling lightly, casually, as if that was the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

All those tears that he gingerly wiped away, the watery smile soothing him ever so slightly. He was beginning to fear Clara would never see just what he felt so stubbornly to be the truth.

Screw felt. He knew.

"I did hope that was the case," he replied light-heartedly with a smile of his own that was gentle and equally loving still, "I love you and I believe in you."

John let her have her space but kept their closeness, as his hands rested gently on Clara's shoulders. He was very earnest through it all, very truthful and straightforward —that was the best way to reassure. By really meaning what you said. Believing it so strongly it might nearly scare you.

Clara took his hand and led him to the bedroom, because by this point she was shivering and all she could really think about was curling up with him. Feeling safe and loved and knowing that someone cared about you unconditionally.

They laid there for a while, exchanging soft, tender kisses, declarations of love and a few mumbled apologies on her part. For the first time in her life she felt hopeful. Hopeful that things were going to be okay because despite her doubts and worries she had this incredible man who loved her beyond belief and cherished her despite the many faults she possessed.

They hadn't had sex since he found out about her. Even after he forgave her they hadn't, Clara putting it down to recovering from the shooting but in reality it hadn't felt right. Especially not since she confessed to her past. She was scared. Scared because every time she closed her eyes she saw his eyes, and not John's. Scared that it might bring back memories she'd repressed so she avoided it, kissing and cuddling but never anything more. Never allowing it to go any further.

But in that moment she closed her eyes and all she saw was John, all she felt was John and her love for him and the fierce desire that had built up inside of her. Their kisses deepened and the rest was a blur of heated touches and tangled limbs and the connection which gave her reassurance. Reassurance and a feeling of safety only he could provide.

John had still been very careful with her, hesitant at every stage and only Clara's gentle encouragement had kept him going on. The softness of her hands guiding, insisting he didn't stop until he got the picture that this was different now. Things were more open, sex was okay again and that she believed him.

If he wasn't so determined not to John might have cried because of how happy and relieved that idea made him.

It was their first time since being completely open with each other and more than anything it sealed their loved, confirming that he was truthful in his claims of adoration and care. Not that she'd ever doubt it.

Afterwards they laid in bed, chests rising and falling in time with each other, legs still tangled together and she pressed small, loving kisses along his collarbone. "I love you. God, I love you, John. Thank you."

"—I love you too," he smiled warmly, stroking Clara's hair and feeling the slight damp at the back of her neck, "we've had a bit of a roller-coaster ride and I don't think I would change it. I never imagine myself meeting somebody and feeling so… I don't know. But without you I'm not me. That is the best way I can say it."

And so they stayed all cuddled up and relaxed. For once, both feeling positive. She even managed to properly sleep without nightmares and John had waited until she drifted off to make sure of it, he quickly followed after her.


End file.
